THE     VEILED     LADY 

AND  OTHER  MEN  AND  WOMEN 


Don't  move  and  don't  look,"  whispered  Joe. 


THE 
VEILED  LADY 

And  Other  Men  and  Women 


Br 

F.  HOPKINSON   SMITH 


ILLUSTRATED 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK::: ::::::::::: :::::::1914 


Copyright,  1907,  by 
©HARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


To  my  Readers: 

This  collection  of  stories  has  been  labelled  "The 
Veiled  Lady"  as  being  the  easiest  way  out  of  a 
dilemma;  and  yet  the  title  may  be  misleading.  While, 
beyond  doubt,  there  is  between  these  covers  a  most 
charming  and  lovable  Houri,  to  whom  the  nightin- 
gales sing  lullabies,  there  can  also  be  found  a  sur- 
passingly beautiful  Venetian  whose  love  affairs  upset 
a  Quarter,  a  common-sense,  motherly  nurse  whose 
heart  warmed  toward  her  companion  in  the  adjoin- 
ing berth,  a  plucky  New  England  girl  with  the  courage 
of  her  convictions,  and  a  prim  spinster  whose  only 
consolation  was  the  boarder  who  sat  opposite. 

Nor  does  the  list  by  any  means  end  here.  Rough 
sea-dogs,  with  friendly  feelings  toward  other  dogs, 
crop  up,  as  well  as  brave  Titans  who  make  derricks 
of  their  arms  and  fender-piles  of  their  bodies.  Here, 
too,  are  skinny,  sun-dried  Excellencies  with  a  taste 
for  revolutions,  well-groomed  club  swells  with  a  taste 
for  adventure  and  cocktails,  not  to  mention  half  a 
dozen  gay,  rollicking  Bohemians  with  a  taste  for 
everything  that  came  their  way. 

Perhaps  it  might  have  been  best  to  enclose  each 

v 

M15561 


TO  MY  READERS 

story  in  a  separate  cover,  and  then  to  dump  the  un- 
assorted lot  upon  the  table,  where  those  who  wished 
could  make  their  choice.  And  yet,  as  I  turn  the  leaves, 
I  must  admit  that,  after  all,  the  present  form  is  best, 
s  since  each  and  every  incident,  situation,  and  bit  of  local 
color  has  either  passed  before  or  was  poured  into  the 
wide-open  eyes  and  willing  ears  of  your  most  humble 
and  obedient  servant 

A  Staid  Old  Painter. 

150  East  34th  Street, 
New  York,  March  13,  1907. 


Vl 


CONTENTS 


The  Veiled  Lady  of  Stamboul 
Loretta  of  the  Shipyard      .     .     . 
A  Coat  of  Red  Lead      .... 
Miss  Murdoch — "Special"     .     . 
The  Beguiling  of  Peter  Griggs   . 
Miss  Jennings's  Companion 
Sam  Joplin's  Epigastric  Nerve 
Miss  Buff  urn's  New  Boarder 
Captain  Joe  and  the  "Susie  Ann 

"Against  Orders'9 

Muggles's  Supreme  Moment  .     . 


?> 


PAGB 

3 

37 
71 

97 
121 
145 

169 
203 
229 
255 

275 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

'Don't  move  and  don't  look"  whispered  Joe   .     .     Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


Her  loose  white  robes  splashed  with  the  molten  silver  of 

the  moon 18 

/  have  laid  hands  on  a  canal — the  Rio  Giusseppe  ...     38 

"He's  a  slick  one,  we  hear,  and  may  be  working  a  stunt  in 

disguise" 164 

"  Order,  gentlemen  !     The  learned  Bean  is  most  interesting 

and  should  not  be  interrupted" 180 

uHe  was  coming  down  the  ladder  slowly" 270 


THE  VEILED    LADY  OF  STAMBOUJ 


THE  VEILED   LADY  OF  STAMBOUL 

Joe  Hornstog  told  me  this  story — the  first  part  of 
it ;  the  last  part  of  it  came  to  me  in  a  way  which 
proves  how  small  the  world  is. 

Joe  belongs  to  that  conglomerate  mass  of  hetero- 
geneous nationalities  found  around  the  Golden  Horn, 
whose  ancestry  is  as  difficult  to  trace  as  a  gypsy's. 
He  says  he  is  a  "  Jew  gentleman  from  Germany," 
but  he  can't  prove  it,  and  he  knows  he  can't. 

There  is  no  question  about  his  being  part  Jew, 
and  there  is  a  strong  probability  of  his  being  part 
German,  and,  strange  to  say,  there  is  not  the  slightest 
doubt  of  his  being  part  gentleman — in  his  own  esti- 
mation; and  I  must  say  in  mine,  when  I  look  back 
over  an  acquaintance  covering  many  years  and 
remember  how  completely  my  bank  account  was  at 
his  disposal  and  how  little  of  its  contents  he  appro- 
priated. 

And  yet,  were  I  required  to  hold  up  my  hand  in 
open  court,  I  would  have  to  affirm  that  Joe,  whatever 
his  other  strains  might  be,  was,  after  all,  ninety-nine 
per  cent.  Levantine — which  is  another  way  of  saying 
that  he  is  part  of  every  nationality  about  him. 

3 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

As  to  his  honesty  and  loyalty,  is  he  not  the  chosen 
dragoman  of  kings  and  princes  when  they  journey 
into  far  distant  lands  (he  speaks  seven  languages 
and  many  tribal  dialects),  and  is  he  not  today  wear- 
ing in  his  buttonhole  the  ribbon  of  the  order  of  the 
Mejidieh,  bestowed  upon  him  by  his  Imperial  High- 
ness the  Sultan,  in  reward  for  his  ability  and  faith- 
fulness ? 

I  must  admit  that  I  myself  have  been  his  debtor — 
not  once,  but  many  times.  It  was  this  same  quick- 
sighted,  quick-witted  Levantine  who  lifted  me  from 
my  sketching  stool  and  stood  me  on  my  feet  in  the 
plaza  of  the  Hippodrome  one  morning  just  in  time 
to  prevent  my  being  trodden  under  foot  by  six  Turks 
carrying  the  body  of  their  friend  to  the  cemetery — 
in  time,  too,  to  save  me  from  the  unforgivable  sin 
among  Orientals,  of  want  of  reverence  for  their  dead. 
I  had  heard  the  tramp  of  the  pall-bearers,  and  sup- 
posing it  to  be  that  of  the  Turkish  patrol,  had  kept 
at  work.  They  were  prowling  everywhere,  day  and 
night,  and  during  those  days  they  passed  every  ten 
minutes — nine  soldiers  in  charge  of  an  officer  of 
police — all  owing  to  the  fact  that  some  five  thousand 
Armenians,  anxious  to  establish  a  new  form  of  gov- 
ernment, had  been  wiped  out  of  existence  only  the 
week  before. 

Once  on  my  feet  (Joe  accomplished  his  purpose 

4 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

with  the  help  of  my  suspenders)  and  the  situation 
clear,  I  had  sense  enough  left  to  uncover  my  head 
and  stand  in  an  attitude  of  profound  reverence  until 
the  procession  had  passed.  I  can  see  them  now — the 
coffin  wrapped  in  a  camel's-hair  shawl,  the  dead  man's 
fez  and  turban  resting  on  top.  Then  I  replaced  my 
hat  and  finished  the  last  of  the  six  minarets  of  the 
mosque  gleaming  like  opals  in  the  soft  light  of  the 
morning. 

This  act  of  courtesy,  due  so  little  to  my  own  initi- 
ative, and  so  largely  to  Joe's,  gained  for  me  many 
friends  in  and  about  the  mosque — not  only  those  of 
the  dead  man,  one  of  whom  rowed  a  caique,  but  among 
the  priests  who  formed  the  funeral  cortege — a  fact 
unknown  to  me  until  Joe  imparted  it.  "  Turk-man 
say  you  good  man,  effendi,"  was  the  way  he  put  it. 
"  You  stoop  over  yourselluf  humble  for  their  dead." 

On  another  occasion  Joe  again  stood  by  my  side 
when,  with  hat  off  and  with  body  in  a  half  JcrAov:,  I 
3at  before  the  Pasha,  who  was  acting  chief  of  police 
after  that  stormy  Armenian  week — it  was  over  really 
in  five  days. 

"  Most  High  Potentate,"  Joe  began,  translating 
my  plain  Anglo-Saxon  "  Please,  sir,"  into  Eastern 
hyperbolics,  "  I  again  seek  your  Excellency's  presence 
to  make  my  obeisance  and  to  crave  your  permission 
to  transfer  to  cheap  paper  some  of  the  glories  of  this 

5 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

City  of  Turquoise  and  Ivory.  This,  if  your  Highness 
will  deign  to  remember,  is  not  the  first  time  I  have 
trespassed.  Twice  before  have  I  prostrated  myself, 
and  twice  has  your  Sublimity  granted  my  request." 

"  These  be  troublous  times,"  puffed  his  Swarthi- 
ness  through  his  mustache,  his  tobacco-stained  fingers 
meanwhile  rolling  a  cigarette;  a  dark-skinned, 
heavily-bearded  Oriental,  this  Pasha,  with  an  eye 
that  burned  holes  in  you.  "You  should  await  & 
more  peaceful  season,  effendi,  for  your  art." 

"  On  account  of  the  Armenians,  your  Excel- 
lency % "  I  ventured  to  inquire  with  a  smile. 

"  Yes."  This,  in  translation  by  Joe,  came  with 
a  whistling  sound,  like  the  escaping  steam  of  a 
radiator. 

"  But  why  should  I  fear  these  disturbers  of  the 
peace,  your  Supreme  Highness?  The  Turk  is  my 
friend,  and  has  been  for  years.  They  know  me  and  my 
pure  and  unblemished  life.  They  also  know  by  this 
time  that  I  have  been  one  of  the  chosen  few  among 
nations  who  have  enjoyed  your  Highness's  confi- 
dence, and  to  whom  you  have  given  protection." 
Here  my  spine  took  the  form  of  a  horseshoe  curve — 
Moorish  pattern.  "  As  to  these  dogs  of  Armenians  " 
(this  last  wras  Joe's,  given  wTith  a  growl  to  show  his 
deep  detestation  of  the  race — part  of  his  own,  if  he 
would  but  acknowledge  it),  "  your  Excellency  will 

6 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OE    STAMBOTJL 

look  out  for  them."  He  was  looking  out  for  them 
at  the  rate  of  one  hundred  a  day  and  no  questions 
asked  or  answered  so  far  as  the  poor  fellows  were 
concerned. 

At  this  the  distinguished  Oriental  finished  rolling 
his  cigarette,  looked  at  me  blandly — it  is  astonishing 
how  sweet  a  smile  can  overspread  the  face  of  a  Turk 
when  he  is  granting  you  a  favor  or  signing  the  death 
warrant  of  an  infidel — clapped  his  hands,  summon- 
ing an  attendant  who  came  in  on  all  fours,  and  whis- 
pered an  order  in  the  left  ear  of  the  almost  prostrate 
man.  This  done,  the  Pasha  rose  from  his  seat, 
straightened  his  shoulders  (no  handsomer  men  the 
world  over  than  these  high-class  Turks),  shook  my 
hand  warmly,  gave  me  the  Turkish  salute — heart, 
mouth,  and  forehead  touched  with  the  tips  of  flying 
fingers — and  bowed  me  out. 

Once  through  the  flat  leather  curtain  that  hid  the 
exit  door  of  the  Pasha's  office,  and  into  the  bare 
corridor,  I  led  Joe  to  a  corner  out  of  the  hearing 
of  the  ever-present  spy,  and,  nailing  him  to  the  wall, 
propounded  this  query : 

"  What  did  the  High-Pan-Jam  say,  Joe  %  " 

Hornstog  raised  his  shoulders  level  with  his  ears, 
fanned  out  his  fingers,  crooked  his  elbows,  and  in  his 
best  conglomerate  answered: 

"  He  say,  effendi,  that  a  guard  of  ein  men,  Yusuf, 

7 


THE   VEILED   LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

&is  name — I  know  him — he  is  in  the  Secret  Service- 


oh,  we  will  have  no  trouble  with  him — — "  Here 
Joe  chafed  his  thumb  and  forefinger  with  the  move- 
ment of  a  paying  teller  counting  a  roll.  "  He  come 
every  morning  to  Galata  Bridge  for  you  me.  He 
iay,  too,  if  any  trouble  while  you  paint  I  go  him — 
ah,  efTendi,  it  is  only  Joe  Llornstog  can  do  these 
things.  The  Pasha,  he  know  me — all  good  Turk-men 
know  me.  Where  we  paint  now,  subito?  In  the 
plaza,  or  in  the  patio  of  the  Valedee,  like  last  year  ? '; 

"  Neither.  We  go  first  to  the  Mosque  of  Suleiman. 
I  want  the  view  through  the  gate  of  the  court-yard, 
with  the  mosque  in  the  background.  Best  place  is 
below  the  cafe.    Pick  up  those  traps  and  come  along. " 

Thus  it  was  that  on  this  particular  summer  after- 
noon Joe  and  I  found  ourselves  on  the  shadow  side 
of  a  wall  up  a  crooked,  break-neck  street  paved  with 
rocks,  each  as  big  as  a  dress-suit  case,  from  which  I 
got  a  full  view  of  the  wonderful  mosque  tossing  its 
splendors  into  the  still  air,  its  cresting  of  minarets 
so  much  frozen  spray  against  the  blue. 

The  little  comedy — or  shall  I  say  tragedy  ? — began 
a  few  minutes  after  I  had  opened  my  easel — I  sit- 
ting crouched  in  the  shadow,  my  elbow  touching  the 
plastered  wall.  Only  Joe  and  I  were  present. 
Yusuf,  the  guard,  a  skinny,  half-fed  Turk  in  fez 
and  European  dress,  had  as  usual  betaken  himself 

8 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

to  the  cafe  fronting  the  same  sidewalk  on  which  I 
sat,  but  half  a  block  away;  far  enough  to  be  out  of 
hearing,  but  near  enough  to  miss  my  presence  should 
I  decamp  suddenly  without  notifying  him.  There 
he  drank  some  fifty  cups  of  coffee,  each  one  the  size 
of  a  thimble,  and  smoked  as  many  cigarettes,  their 
burned  stubs  locating  his  seat  under  the  cafe  awning 
as  clearly  as  peanut-shells  mark  a  boy's  at  the  circus. 
I,  of  course,  paid  for  both. 

So  absorbed  was  I  in  my  work — the  mosque  never 
was  so  beautiful  as  on  that  dav — I  gave  no  thought 
to  the  fact  that  in  my  eagerness  to  hide  my  canvas 
from  the  prying  sun  I  had  really  backed  myself  into 
a  small  wooden  gate,  its  lintel  level  with  the  sidewalk 
— a  dry,  dusty,  sun-blistered  gate,  without  lock  or 
hasp  on  the  outside,  and  evidently  long  closed.  Even 
then  I  would  not  have  noticed  it,  had  not  mv  ears 
caught  the  sound  of  a  voice — two  voices,  in  fact — low, 
gurgling  voices — as  if  a  fountain  had  just  been 
turned  on,  spattering  the  leaves  about  it.  Then  my 
eye  lighted,  not  only  on  the  gate,  but  upon  a  seam  or 
split  in  the  wood,  half-way  up  its  height,  showing 
where  a  panel  was  sometimes  pushed  back,  perhaps 
for  surer  identification,  before  the  inside  wooden 
beam  would  be  loosened. 

So  potent  was  the  spell  of  the  mosque's  witchery 
that  the  next  instant  I  should  have  forgotten  both 

9 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

door  and  panel  had  not  Joe  touched  the  toe  of  my  boot 
with  his  own — he  was  sitting  close  to  me — and  in 
explanation  lifted  his  eyebrow  a  hair's  breadth,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  slowly  sliding  panel — sliding  noise- 
lessly, an  inch  at  a  time.    Only  then  did  my  mind  act. 

What  I  saw  was  first  a  glow  of  yellow  green,  then 
a  mass  of  blossoms,  then  a  throat,  chin  and  face, 
one  after  another,  all  veiled  in  a  gossamer  thin  as  a 
spider's  web,  and  last — and  these  I  shall  never  for- 
get— a  pair  of  eyes  shining  clear  below  and  above  the 
veil,  and  which  gazed  into  mine  with  the  same  steady, 
full,  unfrightened  look  one  sometimes  sees  on  the 
face  of  a  summer  moon  when  it  bursts  through  a 
rift  in  the  clouds. 

"  Don't  move  and  don't  look,"  whispered  Joe  in 
my  ear,  a  tone  in  his  voice  of  one  who  had  just  seen 
a  ghost.     "  Allah !  Ehber!  Yuleima !  " 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  I  answered,  craning  my  neck  to 
see  the  closer. 

"  No  speak  now — keep  still,"  he  mumbled  under 
his  breath. 

It  may  have  been  the  gossamer  veil  shading  a 
rose  skin,  making  pink  pearls  of  the  cheeks  and  chin 
and  lending  its  charm  to  the  other  features ;  or  it 
may  have  been  the  wTonderful  eyes  that  made  me 
oblivious  of  Joe's  warning,  for  I  did  look — looked 
with  all  my  eyes,  and  kept  on  looking. 

10 


THE   VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

Men  have  died  for  just  such  eyes.  Even  now, 
staid  old  painter  as  I  am,  the  very  remembrance 
of  their  wondrous  size — big  as  a  young  doe's  and  as 
pleading,  their  lids  fringed  by  long  feathery  lashes 
that  opened  and  shut  with  the  movement  of  a  tired 
butterfly — sends  little  thrills  of  delight  scampering 
up  and  down  my  spine.  Bulbuls,  timid  gazelles,  per- 
fumed narghilehs,  anklets  of  beaten  gold  strung  with 
turquoise,  tinkling  cymbals,  tiny  turned-up  slippers 
with  silk  tassels  on  their  toes — everything  that  told 
of  the  intoxicating  life  of  the  East  were  mirrored  in 
their  unf  athomed  depths. 

Most  of  these  qualities,  I  am  aware,  are  found  in 
many  another  pair  of  lambent,  dreamy  eyes  half- 
hidden  by  the  soft  folds  of  a  yashmak — eyes  which 
these  houris  often  flash  on  some  poor  devil  of  a 
giaour,  knowing  how  safe  they  are  and  how  slim  his 
chance  for  further  acquaintance.  Strange  tales  are 
told  of  their  seductive  power  and  strange  disappear- 
ances take  place  because  of  them.  And  yet  I  saw 
at  a  glance  that  there  was  nothing  of  all  this  in  her 
wondering  gaze.  Her  eyes,  in  fact,  were  fixed  neither 
on  Joseph  nor  on  me,  nor  did  they  linger  for  one 
instant  on  the  beautiful  mosque.  It  was  my  canvas 
that  held  their  gaze.  Men  and  mosques  were  old 
stories ;  pictures  of  either  as  astounding  as  a  glimpse 
into  heaven. 

11 


THE    VEILED   LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

Again  Joe  bent  his  head  and  whispered  to  me,  his 
glance  this  time  on  the  mosque,  on  the  hill,  on  the 
cafe,  where  Ynsuf  sat  sipping  his  coffee,  talking  to 
me  all  the  time  out  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"  Remember,  effendi,  if  Yusuf  come  we  go  way 
chabouk.  You  look  at  your  picture  all  time — paint — 
no  look  at  her.  If  Yusuf  come  and  catch  us  it  make 
trouble  for  her — make  trouble  for  you — make  more 
trouble  for  me.  Police  Pasha  don't  know  she  come  to 
this  garden — I  think  somebody  must  help  her.  You 
better  stop  now  and  go  cafe.  I  find  Yusuf.  I  no 
like  this  place." 

With  this  Hornstog  rose  to  his  feet  and  began  pack- 
ing the  trap,  still  whispering,  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 
'Never  once  did  he  look  in  the  direction  of  the  houri 
peering  through  the  sliding  panel. 

The  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs  now  resounded 
through  the  still  air.  A  mounted  officer  was  ap- 
proaching. Joe  looked  up,  turned  a  light  pea-green, 
backed  his  body  into  the  gate  with  the  movement 
of  an  eel,  put  his  cheek  close  to  the  sliding  panel, 
and  whispered  some  words  in  Turkish.  The  girl 
loaned  a  little  forward,  glanced  at  the  officer  as  if 
in  confirmation  of  Joseph's  warning,  and  smothering 
a  low  cry,  sprang  back  from  the  opening.  The  next 
instant  my  eye  caught  the  thumb  and  forefinger  of 

a   black  hand   noiselessly   closing   the   panel.      Joe 

12 


THE    VEILED   LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

straightened  up,  pulled  himself  into  the  position,  of 
a  sentinel  on  guard,  saluted  the  officer,  who  passed 
without  looking  to  the  right  or  left,  drew  a  handker- 
chief from  his  pocket,  and  began  mopping  his  head. 
"  What  the  devil  is  it  all  about,  Joe  ?  Why,  you 
look  as  if  you  had  had  the  wind  knocked  out  of  you." 
"  Oh,  awful  close,  awful  close !  I  tell  you — but 
not  here.  Come,  we  go  'way — we  go  now — not  stay 
here  any  more.  If  that  officer  see  the  lady  with  us 
the  Pasha  send  me  to  black  mosque  for  five  year  and 
you  find  yourself  board  ship  on  way  to  Tripoli.  Here 
come  Yusuf — damn  him !  You  tell  him  you  no  like 
view  of  mosque  from  here — say  you  find  another 
place  to-morrow — you  do  this  quick.  Hornstog 
never  lie." 

On  my  way  across  the  Galata  Bridge  to  my  quar- 
ters in  Pera  that  same  afternoon  Joe  followed  until 
Yusuf  had  made  his  kotow  and  we  had  made  ours,  the 
three  ending  in  a  triple  flight  of  fingers — waited  until 
the  guard  was  well  on  his  way  back  to  the  Pasha's 
office — it  was  but  a  short  way  from  the  Stamboul  end 
of  the  Galata — and  drawing  me  into  one  of  the  small 
cafes  overlooking  the  waters  of  the  Golden  Horn, 
seated  me  at  the  far  end  near  a  window  where  we 
could  talk  without  being  overheard.  Here  Joe  ordered 
coffee  and  laid  a  package  of  cigarettes  on  the  table; 
"  My !  but  that  was  like  the  razor  at  the  throat — 

13 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

not  for  all  the  hairs  on  my  head  would  I  had  her 
look  out  the  small  hole  in  the  door  when  Serim  come 
along.  Somebody  must  be  take  care  of  you,  you  Joe 
Hornstog,  that  you  don't  make  damn  big  fool  of 
yourselluf .  Ha !  but  it  make  me  creep  like  a  spider 
crawl." 

I  had  pulled  up  a  chair  by  this  time  and  was  fac- 
ing him. 

"  !Now  what  is  it  ?  Who  is  the  girl  ?  Who  was 
the  chap  on  horseback  ?  " 

"  That  man  on  the  horse  is  Serim  Pasha,  chief 
of  the  palace  police.  He  has  eyes  around  twice ;  one 
in  the  forehead,  one  in  each  ear,  one  in  the  behind 
of  his  head.  He  did  not  see  her — if  he  did — well, 
we  would  not  be  talk  now  together — sure  not  after 
to-morrow  night." 

"  But  what  has  he  got  to  do  with  it  ?  What  did  you 
say  her  name  was  ?     Yuleima  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Yuleima.  What  has  Serim  to  do  with  her  ? 
Well,  I  tell  you.  If  she  get  away  off  go  Serim's 
head.  Listen !  I  speak  something  you  never  hear 
anywhere  'cept  in  Turk-man's  land.  I  know  it  all — 
everything.  I  know  her  prince — lie  knows  me.  I 
meet  him  Damascus  once — he  told  me  some  things 
then — the  tears  run  his  cheeks  down  like  a  baby's 
when  he  talk — and  Serim  know  I  know  somethings ! 
Ah !  that's  why  he  not  believe  me  if  he  catch  me  talk 

14 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

to  her.  Afterward  I  find  more  out  from  my  friend 
in  Yuleima's  house — he  is  the  gardener.  Put  your 
head  close,  effendi." 

I  drew  my  chair  nearer  and  listened. 

"  Yuleima,"  began  Joe,  "  is  one  womans  like  no 
other  womans  in  all " 

But  I  shall  not  attempt  the  dragoman's  halting, 
broken  jargon  interspersed  with  Italian  and  German 
words — it  will  grate  on  you  as  it  grated  on  me.  I 
will  assume  for  the  moment — and  Joe  would  be  most 
thankful  to  have  me  do  so — that  the  learned  Horn- 
stog,  the  friend  of  kings  and  princes,  is  as  fluent  in 
English  as  he  is  in  Turkish,  Arabic,  and  Greek. 

It  all  began  in  a  caique — or  rather  in  two  caiques. 
One  was  on  its  way  to  a  little  white  house  that  nestles 
among  the  firs  at  the  foot  of  the  bare  brown  hill  over- 
looking the  village  of  Beicos.  The  other  was  bound 
for  the  Fountain  Beautiful,  where  the  women  and 
their  slaves  take  the  air  in  the  soft  summer  mornings. 

In  the  first  caique,  rowed  by  two  caique-jis  gorge- 
ously dressed  in  fluffy  trousers  and  blouses  embroid- 
ered in  gold,  sat  the  daughter  of  the  rich  Bagdad 
merchant. 

In  the  second  caique,  cigarette  in  hand,  lounged 
the  nephew  of  the  Khedive,  Mahmoud  Bey;  scarce 
twenty,  slight,  oval  face  with  full  lips,  hair  black  as 
sealskin  and  as  soft,  and  eyes  that  smouldered  under 

15 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OE    STAMBOUL 

heavy  lids.  Four  rowers  in  blue  and  silver  attended 
his  Highness,  the  amber-colored  boat  skimming  the 
waters  as  a  tropical  bird  skims  a  lagoon. 

The  two  had  passed  each  other  the  week  before 
on  the  day  of  the  Selamlik  (the  Turkish  holiday) 
while  paddling  up  the  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia — a  lit- 
tle brook  running  into  the  Bosphorus  and  deep 
enough  for  caiques  to  float,  and  every  day  since  that 
blissful  moment  my  lady  had  spent  the  morning 
under  the  wide-spreading  plane-trees  shading  the 
Fountain  Beautiful — the  Chesmegazell — attended  by 
her  faithful  slave  Multif ,  her  beautiful  body  stretched 
on  a  Damascus  rug  of  priceless  value,  her  eager  eyes 
searching  the  blue  waters  of  the  Bosphorus. 

On  this  particular  morning — my  lady  had  just 
stepped  into  her  boat — the  young  man  was  seen  to 
raise  himself  on  his  elbow,  lift  his  eyelids,  and  a 
slight  flush  suffused  his  swarthy  cheeks.  Then  came 
an  order  in  a  low  voice,  and  the  caique  swerved  in  its 
course  and  headed  for  the  dot  of  white  and  gold  in 
which  sat  Multif  and  my  lady.  The  Spanish  cabal- 
lero  haunts  the  sidewalk  and  watches  all  day  beneath 
his  Dulcinea's  balcony;  or  he  talks  to  her  across  the 
opera-house  or  bull-ring  with  cigarette,  fingers,  and 
cane,  she  replying  with  studied  movements  of  her 
fan.  In  the  empire  of  Mohammed,  with  a  hundred 
eyes  on  watch — eyes  of  eunuchs,  spies,  and  parents — 

16 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

love-making  is  reduced  to  a  passing  glance,  brief  as 
a  flash  of  light,  and  sometimes  as  blinding. 

That  was  all  that  took  place  when  the  two  caiques 
passed — just  a  thinning  of  the  silken  veil,  with  only 
one  fold  of  the  yashmak  slipped  over  the  eyes,  soft- 
ening the  fire  of  their  beauty ;  then  a  quick,  all-enfold- 
ing, all-absorbing  look,  as  if  she  would  drink  into  her 
very  soul  the  man  she  loved,  and  the  two  tiny  boats 
kept  each  on  its  way. 

The  second  act  of  the  comedy  opens  in  a  small 
cove,  an  indent  of  the  Bosphorus,  out  of  sight  of 
passing  boat-patrols — out  of  sight,  too,  of  inquisi- 
tive wayfarers  passing  along  the  highroad  from 
Beicos  to  Danikeui.  Above  the  cove,  running  from 
the  very  beach,  sweeps  a  garden,  shaded  by  great 
trees  and  tangles  of  underbrush ;  one  bunch  smother- 
ing a  summer-house.  This  is  connected  by  a  sheltered 
path  with  the  little  white  house  that  nestles  among 
the  firs  half-way  up  the  steep  brown  hill  that  over- 
looks the  village  of  Beicos. 

The  water-patrol  may  have  been  friendly,  or  my 
lady's  favorite  slave  resourceful,  but  almost  every 
night  for  weeks  the  first  caique  and  the  second 
caique  had  lain  side  by  side  in  the  boat-house  in  the 
cove,  both  empty,  except  for  one  trusty  man  who 
loved  Mahmoud  and  who  did  his  bidding  without 
murmur  or  question,  no  matter  what  the   danger. 

17 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

Higher  up,  her  loose  white  robes  splashed  with  the 
molten  silver  of  the  moon  filtering  through  overhang- 
ing leaves,  where  even  the  nightingale  stopped  to 
listen,  could  be  heard  the  cooing  of  two  voices.  Then 
would  come  a  warning  cry,  and  a  figure  closely 
veiled  would  speed  up  the  path.  Next  could  be  heard 
the  splash  of  oars  of  the  first  caique  homeward  bound. 

Locksmiths  are  bunglers  in  the  East  compared  to 
patrols  and  eunuchs.  Lovers  may  smile,  but  they 
never  laugh  at  them.  There  is  always  a  day  of 
reckoning.  A  whisper  goes  around;  some  dis- 
gruntled servant  shakes  his  head;  and  an  old  fellow 
with  baggy  trousers  and  fez,  says :  "  My  daughter, 
I  am  surprised "  or  "  pained "  or  "  outraged,"  or 
whatever  he  does  say  in  polite  Turkish,  Arabic,  or 
Greek,  and  my  lady  is  locked  up  on  bread  and  water, 
or  fig-paste,  or  Turkish  Delight,  and  all  is  over. 
Sometimes  the  young  Lothario  is  ordered  back  to  his 
regiment,  or  sent  to  Van  or  Trebizond  or  Egypt  for 
the  good  of  his  morals,  or  his  health  or  the  community 
in  which  he  lives.  Sometimes  everybody  accepts  the 
situation  and  the  banns  are  called  and  they  live  happy 
ever  after. 

What  complicated  this  situation  was  that  the  girl, 
although  as  beautiful  as  a  dream — any  number  of 
dreams,  for  that  matter,  and  all  of  paradise — was 
a  plebeian  and  the  young  man  of  royal  blood.  Eurther- 

18 


Her  loose  white  robes  splashed  with  the  molten  silver  of  the  moon. 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

more,  any  number  of  parents,  her  own  two  and  twice 
as  many  uncles  and  aunts,  might  get  together  and 
give,  not  only  their  blessing,  but  lands  and  palaces — 
two  on  the  Bosphorus,  one  in  Bagdad  and  another  at 
Smyrna,  and  nothing  would  avail  unless  his  Imperial 
Highness  the  Sultan  gave  his  consent.  Euthermore, 
again,  should  it  come  to  the  ears  of  his  August  Pres- 
ence that  any  such  scandalous  alliance  was  in  con- 
templation, several  yards  of  additional  bow-strings 
would  be  purchased  and  the  whole  coterie  experience 
a  choking  sensation  which  would  last  them  the  balance 
of  their  lives. 

Thus  it  was  that,  after  that  most  blissful  night 
in  the  arbor — their  last — in  which  she  had  clung  to 
him  as  if  knowing  he  was  about  to  slip  forever  from 
her  arms,  both  caiques  were  laid  up  for  the  season; 
the  first  tight  locked  and  guarded  in  the  palace  of 
the  young  man's  father,  five  miles  along  the  blue 
Bosphorus  as  the  bird  flies,  and  the  second  in  the 
little  boat-house  in  the  small  indent  of  a  cove  under 
the  garden  holding  the  beloved  arbor,  the  little  white 
house,  and  My  Lady  of  the  diaphanous  veil  and  the 
all-absorbing  eyes. 

With  the  lifting  of  the  curtain  on  the  third  act, 
the  scene  shifts.  Xo  more  Sweet  Waters,  no  more 
caiques  nor  stolen  interviews,  the  music  of  hot  kisses 
drowned  in  the  splash  of  the  listening  fountain.     In- 

19 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OE    STAMBOUL 

stead,  there  is  seen  a  sumptuously  furnished  interior 
the  walls  wainscoted  in  Moorish  mosaics  and  lined 
by  broad  divans  covered  with  silken  rugs.  Small 
tables  stand  about  holding  trays  of  cigarettes  and 
sweets.  Over  against  a  window  overlooking  a  garden 
lounges  a  group  of  women — some  young,  some  old, 
one  or  two  of  them  black  as  coal.  It  is  the  harem 
of  the  Pasha,  the  father  of  Mahmoud,  Prince  of  the 
Rising  Sun,  Chosen  of  the  Faithful,  Governor  of  a 
province,  and  of  forty  other  things  beside — most 
of  which  Joe  had  forgotten. 

Months  had  passed  since  that  night  in  the  arbor. 
Yuleima  had  cried  her  eyes  out,  and  Mahmoud  had 
shaken  his  fists  and  belabored  his  head,  swearing 
'by  the  beard  of  the  Prophet  that  come  what  might 
Yuleima  should  be  his. 

Then  came  the  death  of  the  paternal  potentate, 
and  the  young  lover  was  free — free  to  come  and  go, 
to  love,  to  hate;  free  to  follow  the  carriage  of  his 
imperial  master  in  his  race  up  the  hill  after  the  cere- 
mony of  the  Selamlik ;  free  to  choose  any  number  of 
Yuleimas  for  his  solace ;  free  to  do  whatever  pleased 
him — except  to  make  the  beautiful  Yuleima  his 
spouse.  This  the  High-Mightinesses  forbade.  There 
were  no  personal  grounds  for  their  objection.  The 
daughter  of  the  rich  Bagdad  merchant  was  as  gentle 
as  a  doe,  beautiful  as  a  star  seen  through  the  soft 

20 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

mists  of  the  morning,  and  of  stainless  virtue.  Her 
father  had  ever  been  a  loyal  subject,  giving  of  his 
substance  to  both  church  and  state,  but  there  were 
other  things  to  consider,  among  them  a  spouse  espe- 
cially selected  by  a  council  of  High  Pan-Jams,  whose 
decision,  having  been  approved  by  their  imperial  mas- 
ter, was  not  only  binding,  but  final — so  final  that 
death  awaited  any  one  who  would  dare  oppose  it.  At 
the  feast  of  Ramazan  the  two  should  wed.  Yuleima 
might  take  second,  third,  or  fortieth  place — but  not 
first. 

The  young  prince  gritted  his  row  of  white  teeth 
and  flashed  his  slumbering  eyes — and  they  could 
flash — blaze  sometimes — with  a  fire  that  scorched. 
Yuleima  would  be  his,  unsullied  in  his  own  eyes  and 
the  world's,  or  she  should  remain  in  the  little  white 
house  on  the  brown  hill  and  continue  to  blur  her 
beautiful  eyes  with  the  tears  of  her  grief. 

Then  the  favorite  slave  and  the  faithful  caique-ji 
— the  one  who  found  the  little  cove  even  on  the  dark- 
est night — put  their  heads  together — two  very  cun- 
ning and  wise  heads,  one  black  and  wrinkled  and  the 
other  sun-tanned  and  yellow — with  the  result  that 
one  night  a  new  odalisque,  a  dark-skinned,  black- 
haired  houri,  the  exact  opposite  of  the  fair-skinned, 
fair-haired  Yuleima,  joined  the  coterie  in  the  harem 
of  the  palace  of  the  prince.     She  had  been  bought 

21 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

with  a  great  price  and  smuggled  into  Stamboul,  the 
story  ran,  a  present  from  a  distinguished  friend  of 
his  father,  little  courtesies  like  this  being  common 
in  Oriental  countries,  as  one  would  send  a  bottle  of 
i  old  Madeira  from  his  cellar  or  a  choice  cut  of  venison 
.from  his  estate,  such  customs  as  is  well  known  being 
purely  a  matter  of  geography. 

The  chief  blackamoor,  a  shambling,  knock-kneed, 
round-shouldered,  swollen-paunched  apology  for  a 
man,  with  blistered,  cracked  lips,  jaundiced  pig  eyes, 
and  the  skin  of  a  terrapin,  looked  her  all  over,  grunted 
his  approval,  and  with  a  side-lunge  of  his  fat  empty 
head,  indicated  the  divan  which  was  to  be  hers  during 
the  years  of  her  imprisonment. 

One  night  some  words  passed  between  the  two 
over  the  division  of  bonbons,  perhaps,  or  whose  turn 
it  was  to  take  afternoon  tea  with  the  prince — it  had 
generally  been  the  new  houri's,  resulting  in  considera- 
ble jealousy  and  consequent  discord — or  some  trifle 
of  that  sort  ( Joe  had  never  been  in  a  harem,  and  was 
therefore  indefinite),  when  the  blackamoor,  to  punc- 
tuate his  remarks,  slashed  the  odalisque  across  her 
thinly  covered  shoulders  with  a  knout — a  not  uncom- 
mon mode  of  enforcing  discipline,  so  Joe  assured  me. 

Then  came  the  great  scene  of  the  third  act — • 
always  the  place  for  it,  so  dramatists  say. 

The   dark-skinned  houri  sprang  up,   rose  to  her 

22 


THE    VEILED   LADY    OE    STAMBOUL 

full  height,  her  eves  blazing,  and  facing  her  tor- 
mentor, cried : 

"  You  blackguard  " — a  true  statement — "  do  you 
know  who  I  am  ?  " 

"  Yes,  perfectly ;  you  are  Yuleima,  the  daughter 
of  the  Bagdad  merchant." 

The  fourth  act  takes  place  on  the  outskirts  of  Stam- 
boul,  in  a  small  house  surrounded  by  a  hi^h  wall 
which  connects  with  the  garden  of  a  mosque.  The  ex- 
posure by  the  eunuch  had  resulted  in  an  inyestigation 
by  the  palace  clique,  which  extended  to  the  Bagdad 
merchant  and  his  family,  who,  in  explanation,  not 
only  denounced  her  as  an  ungrateful  child,  cursing 
her  for  her  opposition  to  her  sovereign's  will,  but 
denied  all  knowledge  of  her  whereabouts.  They  sup- 
posed, they  pleaded,  that  she  had  thrown  herself 
into  the  Bosphorus  at  the  loss  of  her  loyer.  Then 
followed  the  bundling  up  of  Yuleima  in  the  still 
watches  of  the  night;  her  bestowal  at  the  bottom  of 
a  caique,  her  transfer  to  Stamboul,  and  her  incarcera- 
tion in  charge  of  an  attendant  in  a  deserted  house 
belonging  to  the  mosque.  The  rumor  was  then  set 
on  foot  that  it  was  unlawful  to  look  steadily  into  the 
waters  of  the  Bosphorus  or  to  attempt  the  salvage 
of  any  derelict  body  floating  by. 

The  prince  made  another  assault  on  his  hair  and 
tightened  his  fingers,  this  time  with  a  movement  as 

23 


THE    VEILED   LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 


°--C 


he  was  twisting  them  round  somebody's  throat, 
but  he  made  no  outcry.  It  is  hard  to  kick  against 
the  pricks  in  some  lands. 

He  did  not  believe  the  bow-string  pillow-case  and 
solid-shot  story,  but  he  knew  that  he  should  never 
look  upon  her  face  again.     What  he  did  believe  was; 
that  she  had  been  taken  to  some  distant  citv  and  there 
sold. 

For  days  he  shut  himself  up  in  his  palace.  Then, 
having  overheard  a  conversation  in  his  garden  be- 
tween two  eunuchs — placed  there  for  that  purpose — 
he  got  together  a  few  belongings,  took  his  faithful 
caique-ji,  and  travelled  a-fleld.  If  what  he  had  heard 
was  true  she  was  in  or  near  Damascus.  Here  would 
he  go.  If,  after  searching  every  nook  and  cranny,  he 
failed  to  find  her,  he  would  return  and  carry  out  his 
sovereign's  commands  and  marry  the  princess — a 
woman  he  had  never  laid  his  eyes  on  and  who  might 
be  as  ugly  as  sin  and  as  misshapen  as  Yuleima  was 
beautiful.  It  was  while  engaged  in  this  fruitless 
search  that  he  met  Joseph,  to  whom  he  had  poured 
out  his  heart  (so  Joe  assured  me,  with  his  hand  on 
his  shirt-front),  hoping  to  enlist  his  sympathies  and 
thus  gain  his  assistance. 

All  this  time  the  heartbroken  girl,  rudely  awakened 
from  her  dream  of  bliss,  was  a  prisoner  in  the 
deserted   house   next  the   mosque.      As   the    dreary 

24 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

months  went  by  her  skin  regained  its  pinkness  and 
her  beautiful  hair  its  golden  tint, — walnut  shells  and 
cosmetics  not  being  found  in  the  private  toilet  of  the 
priests  and  their  companions.  When  the  summer 
came  a  greater  privilege  was  given  her.  She  could 
never  speak  to  any  one  and  no  one  could  speak  to 
her — even  the  priests  knew  this — but  a  gate  opening 
into  the  high-walled  garden  was  left  unlocked  now 
and  then  by  one  of  the  kind-hearted  Mohammedans, 
and  often  she  would  wander  as  far  as  the  end  of  the 
wall  overlooking  the  Mosque  of  Suleiman,  her  attend- 
ant always  with  her — a  black  woman  appointed  by 
Chief -of -Police  Selim,  and  responsible  for  her  safety, 
and  who  would  pay  forfeit  with  her  head  if  Yuleima 
escaped. 

"  And  you  think  now,  effendi,"  concluded  Joe,  as 
he  drained  his  last  cup  of  coffee  (Hornstog's  limit 
was  twenty  cups  at  intervals  of  three  minutes  each), 
"  that  Joe  be  big  damn  fool  to  put  his  foots  in  this — 
what  you  call — steel  trap  %  Xo,  no,  we  keep  away. 
To-morrow,  don't  it,  we  take  Yusuf  and  go  Scutari  ? 
One  beautiful  fountain  at  Scutari  like  vou  never 
see !  " 

"  But  can't  her  father  help  ?  "  I  asked,  ignoring 
his  suggestion.  His  caution  did  not  interest  me.  It 
was  the  imprisoned  girl  and  her  suffering  that  occu- 
pied my  thoughts. 

25 


THE   VEILED   LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

"  Yes,  perhaps,  but  not  yet.  I  somethings  hear 
one  day  from  the  gardener  who  live  with  her  father, 
but  maybe  it  all  lie.  He  say  Serim  come  and  say — " 
Again  Joe  chafed  his  thumb  and  forefinger,  after  the 
manner  of  the  paying  teller.  "  Maybe  ten  thousand 
piastres — maybe  twenty.  Her  father  would  pay,  of 
course,  only  the  Sultan  might  not  like — then  worse 
trouble — nothing  will  be  done  anyhow  until  the  wed- 
ding  is  over.     Then,  perhaps,  some  time." 

I  did  not  go  to  Scutari  the  next  day.  I  opened  my 
easel  in  the  patio  of  the  Pigeon  Mosque  and  started 
in  to  paint  the  plaza  with  Cleopatra's  Needle  in  the 
distance.  This  would  occupy  the  morning.  In  the 
afternoon  I  would  finish  my  sketch  of  Suleiman. 
Should  Joe  have  a  fresh  attack  of  ague  he  could  join 
Yusuf  at  the  cafe  and  forget  it  in  the  thimbelful 
that  cheers  but  does  not  inebriate. 

With  the  setting  up  of  my  tripod  and  umbrella 
and  the  opening  of  my  color-box  a  crowd  began 
to  gather — market  people,  fruit-sellers,  peddlers, 
scribes,  and  soldiers.  Then  a  shrill  voice  rang  out 
from  one  of  the  minarets  calling  the  people  to  prayer. 
A  group  of  priests  now  joined  the  throng  about  me, 
watched  me  for  a  moment,  consulted  together,  and 
then  one  of  them,  an  old  man  in  a  silken  robe  of 
corn-yellow  bound  about  with  a  broad  sash  of  baby 
blue,  a  majestic  old  man,  with  a  certain  rhythmic 

26 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

movement  about  him  which  was  enchanting,  laid 
his  hand  on  Joseph's  shoulder  and  looking  into 
his  eyes,  begged  him  to  say  to  his  master  that  the 
making  of  pictures  of  any  living  or  dead  thing,  espe- 
cially mosques,  was  contrary  to  their  religion,  and 
that  the  efTendi  must  fold  his  tent. 

All  this  time  another  priest,  an  old  patriarch  with 
a  fez  and  green  turban  and  Xile-green  robe  overlaid 
with  another  of  rose-pink,  was  scrutinizing  my  face. 
Then  the  corn-yellow  fellow  and  the  rose-pink  patri- 
arch put  their  heads  together,  consulted  for  a  moment, 
made  me  a  low  bow,  performed  the  flying-fingers  act, 
and  floated  off  toward  the  mosque. 

"  You  no  go  'way,  efTendi,"  explained  Joe.  "  The 
priest  in  green  turban  say  he  remember  you ;  he  say 
you  holy  man  who  bow  yourselluf  humble  when  dead 
man  go  by.     Xo  stop  paint." 

The  protests  of  the  priests,  followed  by  their  con- 
sultation and  quiet  withdrawal,  packed  the  crowd  the 
closer.  One  young  man  in  citizen's  dress  and  fez  stood 
on  the  edge  of  the  throng  trying  to  understand  the 
cause  of  the  excitement. 

Joe,  who  was  sitting  by  me  assisting  with  the  water- 
cup,  gazed  into  the  intruder's  face  a  moment,  then 
closed  upon  my  arm  with  a  grip  as  if  he'd  break  it. 

"  Allah  !  Hahmoud  Bey !  "  he  whispered.  "  Yn- 
leima's  prince.     That's  him  with  the  smooth  face." 

27 


THE   VEILED   LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

The  next  instant  the  young  man  stood  by  my  side. 

"  The  people  are  only  curious,  monsieur/'  he  said 
in  French.  "  If  they  disturb  you  I  will  have  them 
sent  away.  So  few  painters  come — you  are  the  first 
I  have  seen  in  many  years.  If  it  will  not  annoy  you, 
I'd  like  to  watch  you  a  while." 

"  Annoy  me,  my  dear  sir !  "  I  was  on  my  feet 
now,  hat  in  hand.  (If  he  had  been  my  long-lost 
brother,  stolen  by  the  Indians  or  left  on  a  desert 
island  to  starve — or  any  or  all  of  those  picturesque 
and  dramatic  things — I  could  not  have  been  more 
glad  to  see  him.  I  fairly  hugged  myself — it  seemed 
too  good  to  be  true.)  "  I  will  be  more  than  delighted 
if  you  will  take  my  dragoman's  stool.  Get  up,  Joe, 
and  give " 

The  request  had  already  been  forestalled.  Joe 
was  not  only  up,  but  was  bowing  with  the  regularity 
and  precision  of  the  arms  of  a  windmill,  his  fingers, 
with  every  rise,  fluttering  between  his  shirt-stud  and 
his  eyebrows.  On  his  second  upsweep  the  young 
prince  got  a  view  of  his  face — then  his  hand  went 
out. 

"  Why,  it  is  Hornstog !  We  know  each  other.  We 
met  in  Damascus.  You  could  not,  monsieur,  find  a 
better  dragoman  in  all  Constantinople." 

Only  three  pairs  of  eyes  now  followed  the  move- 
ments of  my  brush,  the  crowd  having  fallen  back  out 

28 


THE    VEILED   LADY    OF    STAMBOtJL 

of  respect  for  the  young  man's  rank,  Yusuf  having 
communicated  that  fact  to  those  who  had  not  recog- 
nized him. 

When  the  light  changed — and  it  changed  unusu- 
ally early  that  morning,  about  two  hours  ahead  of 
time  (I  helped) — I  said  to  the  prince: 

"  It  may  interest  you  to  see  me  finish  a  sketch  in 
color.  Come  with  me  as  far  as  Suleiman.  We  can 
sit  quite  out  of  the  sun  up  a  little  back  street  under 
a  wall,  and  away  from  everybody.  I  began  the  draw- 
ing yesterday.     See !  "  and  I  uncovered  the  canvas. 

"  Ah,  Suleimanyeh  !  The  most  beautiful  of  all  our 
mosques.     Yes,  certainly  I'll  go." 

Joe  dug  his  knuckles  into  my  thigh,  under  pretence 
of  steadying  himself — he  was  squatting  beside  me  like 
a  frog,  helping  with  the  water-cups — and  gasped: 
"  Iso ;  don't  take  him — please,  effendi !  Xo — 
no " 

I  brushed  Joe  aside  and  continued :  "  We  can  send 
for  coffee  and  spend  the  afternoon.  I'll  have  some 
chairs  brought  from  the  cafe.  Pick  up  everything, 
Joe,  and  come  along." 

On  the  way  to  the  crooked,  break-neck  street  my 
thoughts  went  racing  through  my  head.  On  one  side, 
perhaps,  a  tap  on  the  shoulder  in  the  middle  of  the 
night ;  half  a  yard  of  catgut  in  the  hands  of  a  Bashi- 
Bazouk ;  an  appeal  to  our  consul,  with  the  conscious- 

29 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

ness  of  having  meddled  with  something  that  did  not 
concern  me.  On  the  other  a  pair  of  tear-stained, 
pleading  eyes.  ISTot  my  eyes — not  the  eyes  of  any- 
body that  I  knew — but  the  kind  that  raise  the  devil 
even  in  the  heart  of  a  staid  old  painter  like  myself. 

Joe  followed,  with  downcast  gaze.  He,  too,  was 
scheming.  He  could  not  protest  before  the  prince, 
nor  before  Yusuf.  That  would  imply  previous 
knowledge  of  the  danger  lurking  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  old  wall.  His  was  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea. 
"Not  to  tell  the  prince  of  Yuleima's  whereabouts, 
after  their  combined  search  for  her,  and  the  fees  the 
prince  had  paid  him,  would  be  as  cruel  as  it  was  dis- 
loyal. To  assist  in  Mahmoud's  finding  her  would 
bring  down  upon  his  own  head — if  it  was  still  on  his 
shoulders — the  wrath  of  the  chief  of  police,  as  well 
as  the  power  behind  him. 

Once  under  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  the  trap  un- 
packed, easel  and  umbrella  up,  and  water-bottle 
filled,  Joe  started  his  windmill,  paused  at  the  third 
koto iv ,  looked  me  straight  in  the  eye,  and,  with  a  tone 
in  his  voice,  as  if  he  had  at  last  come  to  some  conclu- 
sion, made  this  request : 

"  I  have  no  eat  breakfast,  effendi — very  hungry — 
you  please  permit  Joe  go  cafe  with  Yusuf — we  stay 
one  hour,  no  more.  Then  I  bring  coffee.  You  see 
me  when  I  come — I  bring  the  coffee  myselluf." 

30 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

He  could  not  have  pleased  me  more.  How  to  get 
rid  of  them  both  was  what  had  been  bothering  me. 

I  painted  on,  both  of  its  backed  into  the  low  gate 
with  the  sliding  panel,  my  eyes  on  the  mosque,  my 
ears  open  for  the  slightest  sound.  We  talked  of  the 
wonderful  architecture  of  the  East,  of  the  taper  of 
the  minarets,  of  the  grace  and  dignity  of  the  priests, 
of  the  social  life  of  the  people,  I  leading  and  he 
following,  until  I  had  brought  the  conversation  down 
to  the  question: 

"  And  when  you  young  men  decide  to  marry  are 
you  free  to  choose,  as  we  Europeans  are  V'  I  was 
feeling  about,  wondering  how  much  of  his  confidence 
he  would  give  me. 

"  ]^o ;  that's  why,  sometimes,  I  wish  I  was  like 
one  of  the  white  gulls  that  fly  over  the  Avater." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  would  be  out  at  sea  with  my  mate — that's- 
what  I  mean." 

"  Have  you  a  mate  ?  " 

"I  had.     She  is  lost," 

"  Dead  \  " 

"  Worse." 

I  kept  at  work.  White  clouds  sailed  over  the 
mosque;  a  flurry  of  pigeons  swept  by;  the  air  blew 
fresh.  With  the  exception  of  my  companion  and 
myself  the  street  was  deserted.     I  dared  not  go  any 

31 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OE    STAMBOUL 

further  in  my  inquiries.  If  I  betrayed  any  more 
interest  or  previous  knowledge  he  might  think  I  was 
in  league  against  him. 

"  The  girl,  then,  suffers  equally  with  the  man  ?  " 
I  said,  tightening  one  of  the  legs  of  my  easel. 

"  More.  He  can  keep  his  body  clean ;  she  must 
often  barter  hers  in  exchange  for  her  life.  A  woman 
doesn't  count  much  in  Turkey.  This  is  one  of  the 
things  we  young  men  who  have  seen  something  of  the 
outside  world — I  lived  a  year  in  Paris — will  improve 
when  we  get  the  power,"  and  his  eyes  flashed. 

"  And  yet  it  is  dangerous  to  help  one  of  them  to 
escape,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  hour  was  nearly  up.  Joe,  I  knew,  had  fixed 
it,  consulting  his  wratch  and  comparing  it  with  mine 
so  that  I  might  know  the  coast  was  clear  during  that 
brief  period  should  anything  happen. 

"  I  was  tempted  to  help  one  yesterday,"  I  an- 
swered. "  I  saw  a  woman's  face  that  has  haunted  me 
ever  since.  She  may  not  have  been  in  trouble,  but 
she  looked  so."  Then  quietly,  and  as  if  it  was  only 
one  of  the  many  incidents  that  cross  a  painter's  path, 
I  described  in  minute  detail  the  gate,  the  sliding 
panel,  the  veiled  face  and  wondrous  eyes,  the  ap- 
proach of  the  officer,  the  smothered  cry  of  terror,  the 

black  finger  and  thumb  that  reached  out,  and  the 

32 


THE    VEILED   LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

noiseless  closing  of  the  panel.  What  I  omitted  was 
all  reference  to  Joe  or  his  knowledge  of  the  girl. 

Mahmond  was  staring  into  my  eyes  now. 

"  Where  was  this  ?  " 

"  Just  behind  yon.  Lift  your  head — that  seam 
marks  the  sliding  panel.  She  may  come  again  when 
she  sees  the  top  of  my  umbrella  over  the  wall. 
Listen !  That's  her  step.  She  has  some  one  with  her 
— crouch  down  close.  There's  only  room  for  her  head. 
You  may  see  her  then  without  her  attendant  knowing 
you  are  here.    Quick !  she  is  sliding  the  panel !  " 

Outside  of  Paris,  overlooking  the  Seine,  high  up 
on  a  hill,  stands  the  Bellevue — a  restaurant  known 
to  half  the  world.  Sweeping  down  from  the  perfectly 
appointed  tables  lining  the  rail  of  the  broad  piazza ; 
skimming  the  tree-tops,  the  plain  below,  the  twisting 
river,  rose-gold  in  the  twilight,  the  dots  of  parks 
and  villas,  the  eye  is  lost  in  the  distant  city'  and  the 
haze  beyond — the  whole  a-twinkle  with  myriads  of 
electric  lights. 

There,  one  night,  from  my  seat  against  the  opposite 

wall   (I  was  dining  alone),  I  was  amusing  myself 

watching  a  table  being  set  with  more  than  usual  care ; 

some  rich  American,  perhaps,  with  the  world  in  a 

sling,  or  some  young  Russian  running  the  gauntlet 

of  the  dressing-rooms.    Staid  old  painters  like  myseli 

33 


THE    VEILED    LADY    OF    STAMBOUL 

take  an  interest  in  these  things.  They  serve  to  fill 
his  note-hook,  and  sometimes  help  to  keep  him  young. 

When  I  looked  again  the  waiter  was  drawing  out 
a  chair  for  a  woman  with  her  hack  to  me;  In  the 
half-light,  her  figure,  in  silhouette  against  the  cluster 
of  candles  lighting  the  tahle,  I  could  see  that  she  was 
young  and,  from  the  way  she  took  her  seat,  wonder- 
fully graceful.  Opposite  her,  drawing  out  his  own 
chair,  stood  a  young  man  in  evening  dress,  his  head 
outlined  against  the  low,  twilight  sky.  It  was  Mah- 
moud! 

I  sprang  from  my  seat  and  walked  straight  toward 
them.  There  came  a  low  cry  of  joy,  and  then  four 
outstretched  arms — two  of  them  tight-locked  about 
my  neck. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  asked,  when  we  had  seated  ourselves, 
Yuleima's  hands  still  clinging  to  mine.  "  After  I 
left  you  that  last  night  in  the  garden,  was  the  boat 
where  we  hid  it  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Who  rowed  you  to  the  steamer  ?  " 

"  My  old  caique-ji/' 

"  And  who  got  the  tickets  and  passports  ?  " 

"  Hornstog." 


34 


LORETTA  OF  THE  SHIPYARDS 


LORETTA   OF  THE   SHIPYARDS 


For  centuries  the  painters  of  Venice  have  seized 
and  made  their  own  the  objects  they  loved  most  in 
this  wondrous  City  by  the  Sea.  Canaletto,  ignoring 
every  other  beautiful  thing,  laid  hold  of  quays  backed 
by  lines  of  palaces  bordering  the  Grand  Canal,  dotted 
with  queer  gondolas  rowed  by  gondoliers,  in  queerer 
hoods  of  red  or  black,  depending  on  the  guild  to  which 
they  belonged.  Turner  stamped  his  ownership  on 
sunset  skies,  silver  dawns,  illuminations,  fetes,  and 
once  in  a  while  on  a  sweep  down  the  canal  past  the 
Salute,  its  dome  a  huge  incandescent  pearl.  Ziem 
tied  up  to  the  long  wall  and  water  steps  of  the  Public 
Garden,  aflame  with  sails  of  red  and  gold :  he  is  still 
there — was  the  last  I  heard  of  him,  octogenarian  as 
he  is.  Rico  tacks  his  card  to  garden  walls  splashed 
with  the  cool  shadows  of  rose-pink  oleanders  dropping 
their  blossoms  into  white  and  green  ripples,  melting 
into  blue.  As  for  me — I  have  laid  hands  on  a  canal 
—the  Rio  Giuseppe — all  of  it — from  the  beginning 

37 


LOEETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

of  the  red  wall  where  the  sailors  land,  along  its 
crookednesses  to  the  side  entrance  of  the  Public  Gar- 
den, and  so  past  the  rookeries  to  the  lagoon,  where 
the  tower  of  Castello  is  ready  to  topple  into  the  sea. 

Not  much  of  a  canal — not  much  of  a  painting 
ground  really,  to  the  masters  who  have  gone  before 
and  are  still  at  work,  but  a  truly  lovable,  lovely,  and 
most  enchanting  possession  to  me  their  humble  disci- 
ple. Once  you  get  into  it  you  never  want  to  get  out, 
and,  once  out,  you  are  miserable  until  you  get  back 
again.  On  one  side  stretches  a  row  of  rookeries — 
a  maze  of  hanging  clothes,  fish-nets,  balconies  hooded 
by  awnings  and  topped  by  nondescript  chimneys  of 
all  sizes  and  patterns,  with  here  and  there  a  dab 
of  vermilion  and  light  red,  the  whole  brilliant  against 
a  china-blue  sky.  On  the  other  runs  the  long  brick 
wall  of  the  garden, — soggy,  begrimed ;  streaked  with 
moss  and  lichen  in  bands  of  black-green  and  yellow 
ochre,  over  which  mass  and  sway  the  great  sycamores 
that  Ziem  loves,  their  lower  branches  interwoven 
\  with  zinnober  cedars  gleaming  in  spots  where  the  pry- 
ing sun  drips  gold. 

Only  wide  enough  for  a  harca  and  two  gondolas  to 
pass — this  canal  of  mine.  Only  deep  enough  to  let 
a  wine  barge  through;  so  narrow  you  must  go  all 
the  way  back  to  the  lagoon  if  you  would  turn  your 
gondola;   so  short  you  can  row  through  it  in  five 

38 


LOEETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

minutes;  every  inch  of  its  water  surface  part  of 
everything  about  it,  so  clear  are  the  reflections ;  full 
of  moods,  whims,  and  fancies,  this  wave  space — one 
moment  in  a  broad  laugh  coquetting  with  a  bit  of 
blue  sky  peeping  from  behind  a  cloud,  its  cheeks 
dimpled  with  sly  undercurrents,  the  next  swept  by 
flurries  of  little  winds,  soft  as  the  breath  of  a  child 
on  a  mirror;  then,  when  aroused  by  a  passing  boat, 
breaking  out  into  ribbons  of  color — swirls  of  twisted 
doorways,  flags,  awnings,  flower-laden  balconies, 
black-shawled  Venetian  beauties  all  upside  down,  in- 
terwoven with  strips  of  turquoise  sky  and  green 
waters — a  bewildering,  intoxicating  jumble  of  tatters 
and  tangles,  maddening  in  detail,  brilliant  in  color, 
harmonious  in  tone:  the  whole  scintillating  with  a 
picturesqueness  beyond  the  ken  or  brush  of  any 
painter  living  or  dead. 

On  summer  days — none  other  for  me  in  Venice 
(the  other  fellow  can  have  it  in  winter) — every- 
body living  in  the  rookeries  camps  out  on  the  quay, 
1  the  women  sitting  in  groups  stringing  beads,  the 
men  flat  on  the  pavement  mending  their  nets.  On 
its  edge,  hanging  over  the  water,  reaching  down,  hold- 
ing on  bv  a  foot  or  an  arm  to  the  iron  rail,  are 
massed  the  children — millions  of  children — I  never 
counted  them,  but  still  I  say  millions  of  children. 
This  has  gone  on  since  I  first  staked  out  my  claim — 

39 


LOKETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYAEDS 

was  a  part  of  the  inducement,  in  fact,  that  decided  me 
to  move  in  and  take  possession — boats,  children,  still 
water,  and  rookeries  being  the  ingredients  from  which 
I  concoct  color  combinations  that  some  misguided 
people  take  home  and  say  they  feel  better  for. 

If  you  ask  me  for  how  many  years  I  have  been  sole 

,,  owner  of  this  stretch  of  water  I  must  refer  you  to 

'  Loretta,  who  had  lived  just  five  summers  when  my 

big  gondolier,  Luigi,  pulled  her  dripping  wet  from 

the  canal,  and  who  had  lived  eleven  more — sixteen,  in 

all — when  what  I  have  to  tell  you  happened. 

And  yet,  Loretta's  little  mishap,  now  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  does  not  go  back  far  enough.  My  claim 
was  really  staked  out  before  she  was  born  (I  am  still 
in  possession — that  is — I  was  last  year,  and  hope  to  be 
this),  and  her  becoming  part  of  its  record  is  but  the 
sticking  of  two  pins  along  a  chart, — the  first  marking 
her  entrance  at  five  and  the  second  her  exit  at  six- 
teen. All  the  other  years  of  my  occupation — those 
before  her  coming  and  since  her  going — were,  of 
course,  full  of  the  kind  of  joy  that  comes  to  a  painter, 
but  these  eleven  years — well,  these  had  all  of  this 
joy  and  then,  too,  they  had — Loretta. 

I  was  in  the  bow  of  the  gondola  when  the  first 
of  these  two  pins  found  its  place  on  the  chart,  working 
away  like  mad,  trying  to  get  the  exact  shadow  tones 
on  a  sun-flecked  wall.    Luigi  was  aft,  fast  asleep,  his 

40 


LOEETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

elbow  under  his  head:  I  never  object,  for  then  he 
doesn't  shake  the  boat.  Suddenly  from  out  the  hum 
of  the  children's  voices  there  came  a  scream  vibrant 
with  terror.  Then  a  splash!  Then  the  gondola 
swayed  as  if  a  barca  had  bumped  it,  and  the  next 
I  thing  I  knew  Luigi's  body  made  a  curve  through 
the  air,  struck  the  water,  with  an  enormous  souse, 
and  up  came  Loretta,  her  plump,  wet  little  body 
resting  as  easily  on  Luigi's  hand,  as  a  tray  rests  on  a 
waiter's.  Another  sweep  with  his  free  arm,  and  he 
passed  me  the  dripping  child  and  clambered  up 
beside  her.  The  whole  affair  had  not  occupied  two 
minutes. 

That  was  a  great  day  for  me ! 

Heretofore  I  had  been  looked  upon  as  a  squatter: 
possessing  certain  rights,  of  course,  and  more  or  less 
welcome  because  of  sundry  lire  expended  for  the  tem- 
porary use  of  fishing  boats  with  sails  up, — but  still 
an  interloper.  Now  I  became  one  of  the  thousand 
families  and  the  million  children.  These  were  all 
in  evidence  in  less  than  ten  seconds;  the  peculiar 
quality  of  that  scream  had  done  it;  not  only  from 
the  top  story  of  the  highest  rookery  did  they  swarm, 
but  from  every  near-by  campo,  and  way  back  to  the 
shipyards. 

Luigi  pushed  the  gondola  to  the  quay  and  I 
lifted   out   the   water-soaked,   blue-lipped  little   tot, 

41 


LOKETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYAEDS 

her  hair  flattened  against  her  cheeks  (she  was 
laughing  now, — "  It  was  nothing,"  she  said,  "  my 
foot  slipped,")  and  placed  her  in  the  hands  of 
the  longest-armed  fishwife;  and  then  Luigi  disap- 
peared into  a  door,  level  with  the  quay,  from  which 
he  reappeared  ten  minutes  later  in  a  suit  of  dry 
clothes,  the  property  of  a  fisherman,  and  of  so  gro- 
tesque a  fit,  the  trousers  reaching  to  his  knees  and  the 
cuffs  of  the  coat  to  his  elbows,  that  he  set  the  popu- 
lation in  a  roar.  My  Luigi,  you  might  as  well 
know,  is  six  feet  and  an  inch,  with  the  torso  of  a 
Greek  god  and  a  face  that  is  twin  to  Colleone's,  and, 
furthermore,  is  quite  as  distinguished  looking  as  that 
gentleman  on  horseback,  even  if  he  does  wear  a  straw 
hat  instead  of  a  copper  helmet.  After  this  Loretta 
became  part  of  my  establishment,  especially  at  lun- 
cheon time,  Luigi  hunting  her  up  and  bringing  her 
aboard  in  his  arms,  she  clinging  to  his  grizzled,  sun- 
burned neck.  Often  she  would  spend  the  rest  of  the 
day  watching  me  paint. 

All  I  knew  of  her  antecedents  and  life  outside 
of  these  visits  was  what  Luigi  told  me.  She  was  born, 
he  said,  in  the  shipyards,  and  at  the  moment  lived 
in  the  top  of  the  rookery  nearest  the  bridge.  She  had 
an  only  sister,  who  was  ten  years  older;  the  mother 
was  the  wife  of  a  crab  fisherman  who  had  died  some 
years  before;   the   two   children   and   mother  were 

42 


LORETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

cared  for  by  a  brother  crab  fisherman.  His  son 
Francesco,  if  report  were  true,  was  to  marry  the 
sister  when  she  turned  fifteen,  Francesco  being  four 
years  older.  This  last  reference  to  Francesco  came 
with  a  shake  of  the  head  and  a  certain  expression  in 
Luigi's  eyes  which  told  me  at  once  that  his  opinion  ( 
of  the  prospective  groom  was  not  for  publication — 
a  way  he  has  when  he  dislikes  somebody  and  is  too 
polite  to  express  it. 

"  Fishes  for  crabs,  like  his  father  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  crabs  and  young  girls,"  he  answered  with 
a  frown.  "  A  poor  lot,  these  crab  catchers,  Signore. 
Was  it  the  charcoal  or  a  brush  you  wanted  ? '; 

Francesco  did  not  interest  me, — nor  did  the  grown- 
up sister;  nor  the  mother,  over  whom  Luigi  also 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  Loretta's  chubbiness 
that  delighted  my  soul. 

Even  at  five  she  was  a  delightful  little  body,  and 
full  of  entrancing  possibilities.  One  can  always  tell 
what  the  blossom  will  be  from  the  bud.  In  her 
case,  all  the  essentials  of  beauty  were  in  evidence :  I 
dark,  lustrous  velvety  eyes ;  dazzling  teeth — not  one 
missing;  jet-black  hair — and  such  a  wealth  of  it, 
almost  to  her  shoulders ;  a  slender  figure,  small  hands 
and  feet;  neat,  well-turned  ankles  and  wrists,  and 
rounded  plump  arms  above  the  elbows. 

"  What  do  you  intend  to  do,  little  one,  when  you 

43 


LORETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

grow  up  %  "  I  asked  her  one  morning.  She  was  sitting 
beside  me,  her  eyes  following  every  movement  of  my 
brush. 

"  Oh,  what  everybody  does.  I  shall  string  beads 
and  then  when  I  get  big  like  my  sister  I  shall  go  to 
the  priest  and  get  married,  and  have  a  ring  and  new 
shoes  and  a  beautiful,  beautiful  veil  all  over  my 
hair." 

"  So !     And  have  you  picked  him  out  yet  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Signore !  Why,  I  am  only  a  little  girl. 
But  he  will  surely  come, — they  always  come." 

These  mornings  in  the  gondola  continued  until  she 
was  ten  years  old.  Sometimes  it  was  a  melon  held 
high  in  the  air  that  tempted  her ;  or  a  basket  of  figs, 
or  some  huge  bunches  of  grapes;  or  a  roll  and  a 
broiled  fish  from  a  passing  cook-boat:  but  the  bait 
always  sufficed.  With  a  little  cry  of  joy  the  beads 
would  be  dropped,  or  the  neighbor's  child  passed  to 
another  or  whatever  else  occupied  her  busy  head 
and  small  hands,  and  away  she  would  run  to  the  water 
steps  and  hold  out  her  arms  until  Luigi  rowed  over 
and  lifted  her  in.  She  had  changed,  of  course,  in 
these  five  years,  and  was  still  changing,  but  only  as 
an  expanding  bud  changes.  The  eyes  were  the  same 
and  so  were  the  teeth — if  any  had  dropped  out,  newer 
and  better  ones  had  taken  their  places;  the  hair 
though  was  richer,  fuller,  longer,  more  like  coils  of 

44 


LORETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

liquid  jet,  with  a  blue  sheen  where  the  sky  lights 
touched  its  folds.  The  tight,  trim  little  figure,  too, 
had  loosened  out  in  certain  places — especially  about 
the  chest  and  hips.  Before  many  years  she  would 
flower  into  the  purest  type  of  the  Venetian — the  most 
beautiful  woman  the  world  knows. 

At  sixteen  she  burst  into  bloom. 

I  have  never  seen  a  black  tulip,  not  a  real  velvet- 
black,  but  if  inside  its  shroud  of  glossy  enfoldings — 
so  like  Loretta's  hair — there  lies  enshrined  a  mouth 
red  as  a  pomegranate  and  as  enticing,  and  if  above 
it  there  burn  two  eyes  that  would  make  a  holy  man 
clutch  his  rosary ;  and  if  the  flower  sways  on  its  stalk 
with  the  movement  of  a  sapling  caressed  by  a  summer 
breeze ; — then  the  black  tulip  is  precisely  the  kind  of 
flower  that  Loretta  bloomed  into. 

And  here  the  real  trouble  began, — just  as  it  begins 
for  every  other  pretty  Venetian,  and  here,  too,  must 
I  place  the  second  pin  in  my  chart. 

It  all  came  through  Francesco.  The  older  sister 
had  died  with  the  first  child,  and  this  crab  catcher 
had  begun  to  stretch  out  his  claws  for  Loretta.  She 
and  her  mother  still  lived  with  Francesco's  father, 
who  was  a  widower.  The  mother  kept  the  house  for 
all, — had  done  so  for  Francesco  and  her  daughter 
during  their  brief  married  life. 

In  her  persecution  Loretta  would  pour  out  her 

45 


LOKETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYAKDS 

heart  to  Luigi,  telling  how  they  bothered  her, — her 
mother  the  most  of  all.  She  hated  Francesco, — hated 
his  father, — hated  everybody  who  wanted  her  to 
marry  the  fisherman.  (Luigi,  poor  fellow,  had  lost 
his  only  daughter  when  she  was  five  years  of  age, 
which  accounted,  I  always  thought,  for  his  interest 
in  the  girl.) 

One  morning  she  called  to  him  and  waited  on  the 
quay  until  he  could  hail  a  passing  barca  and  step 
from  the  gondola  to  its  deck  and  so  ashore.  Then 
the  two  disppeared  through  the  gate  of  the  garden. 

"  She  is  too  pretty  to  go  alone,"  he  explained  on 
his  return.  "  Every  day  she  must  pay  a  boy  two 
soldi,  Signore,  to  escort  her  to  the  lace  factory — the 
boy  is  sick  today  and  so  I  went  with  her.  But  their 
foolishness  will  stop  after  this; — these  rats  know 
Luigi." 

From  this  day  on  Loretta  had  the  Riva  to  herself. 

II 

So  far  there  has  been  introduced  into  this  story 
the  bad  man,  Francesco,  with  crab-like  tendencies, 
who  has  just  lost  his  wife ;  the  ravishingly  beautiful 
Loretta ;  the  girl's  mother,  of  whom  all  sorts  of  stories 
were  told — none  to  her  credit;  big  tender-hearted 
Luigi  Zanaletto,  prince  of  gondoliers,  and  last,  and 

46 


LOEETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYAKDS 

this  time  least,  a  staid  old  painter  who  works  in  a 
gondola  up  a  crooked  canal  which  is  smothered  in 
trees,  choked  by  patched-up  boats  and  flanked  by 
tattered  rookeries  so  shaky  that  the  slightest  earth 
quiver  would  tumble  them  into  kindling  wood. 

There  enters  now  another  and  much  more  impor-  , 
,  tant  character, — one  infinitely  more  interesting  to 
my  beautiful  Lady  of  the  Shipyards  than  any  grand- 
father gondolier  or  staid  old  painter  who  ever  lived. 
This  young  gentle  nan  is  twenty-one ;  has  a  head  like 
the  Hermes,  a  body  like  the  fauns,  and  winsome,  lan- 
guishing eyes  with  a  light  in  their  depths  which  have 
set  the  heart  of  every  girl  along  his  native  Giudecca 
pitapatting  morning,  noon,  and  night.  He  enjoys 
the  distinguished  name  of  Vittorio  Borodini,  and  is 
the  descendant  of  a  family  of  gondoliers — of  the  guild 
of  the  Castellani — who  can  trace  their  ancestral  call- 
ing back  some  two  hundred  years  (so  can  Luigi;  but 
then  Luigi  never  speaks  of  it,  and  the  Borodinis 
always  do).  Being  aristocrats,  the  Zanalettos  and 
Borodinis  naturally  fraternize,  and  as  they  live  in 
the  same  quarter — away  up  on  the  Giudecca — two 
miles  from  my  canal — the  fathers  of  Yittorio  and 
Luigi  have  become  intimate  friends.  Anything, 
therefore,  touching  the  welfare  of  any  one  of  the 
descendants  of  so  honorable  a  guild  is  more  or  less 
vital  to  the  members  of  both  families. 

47 


LOEETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYAEDS 

At  the  moment  something  had  touched  a  Boro- 
dino— and  in  the  most  vital  of  spots.  This  was  noth- 
ing less  than  the  heart  of  young  Vittorio,  the  pride 
and  hope  of  his  father.  He  had  seen  the  "  Rose  of 
the  Shipyards/7  as  she  was  now  called,  pass  the  tra- 
ghetto  of  the  Molo,  off  which  lay  his  gondola  await- 
ing custom, — it  was  on  one  of  the  days  when  the 
two-soldi  boy  acted  as  chaperon, — and  his  end  had 
come. 

It  had  only  been  a  flash  from  out  the  lower 
corner  of  the  left  eye  of  Loretta  as  she  floated 
along  past  the  big  columns  of  the  Palazzo  of 
the  Doges,  but  it  had  gone  through  the  young  gondo- 
lier and  out  on  the  other  side,  leaving  a  wound  that 
nothing  would  heal.  She  had  not  intended  to  hurt 
him,  or  even  to  attract  him; — he  only  happened  to 
be  in  the  way  when  her  search-light  illumined  his 
path. 

Vittorio  knew  at  a  glance  that  she  came  from  the 
rookeries  and  that  he,  the  scion  of  a  noble  family, 
'should  look  higher  for  his  mate,  but  that  made  no 
difference.  She  was  built  for  him  and  he  was  built 
for  her,  and  that  was  the  end  of  it:  not  for  an 
intrigue — he  was  not  constructed  along  those  lines — 
but  with  a  ring  and  a  priest  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
The  main  difficulty  was  to  find  some  one  who  knew 
her.     He  would  not, — could  not,  confront  her;  nor 

48 


LOKETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

would  he  follow  her  home;  but  something  must  be 
done,  and  at  once:  a  conclusion,  it  will  be  admitted, 
than  an  incalculable  number  of  young  Vittorios  have 
reached,  sooner  or  later,  the  world  over. 

When,  therefore,  a  rumor  came  to  his  ears  that 
Luigi  the  Primo  was  protecting  her — the  kind  of 
protection  that  could  never  be  misunderstood  in 
Luigi's  case — a  piece  of  news  which  his  informer  was 
convinced  would  end  the  projected  intrigue  of  the 
young  gondolier,  then  and  there  and  for  all  time, 
Vittorio  laughed  so  loud  and  so  long,  and  so  merrily, 
that  he  lost,  in  consequence,  two  fares  to  San  Giorgio, 
and  came  near  being  reprimanded  by  the  Gastaldo 
for  his  carelessness. 

That  was  why  late  one  afternoon  (I  was  painting 
the  sunset  glow)  just  as  Loretta  reached  the  edge  of 
the  quay  on  her  way  home,  a  young  fellow,  in  white 
duck  with  a  sash  of  dark  red  silk  binding  and  hanging 
from  his  waist  and  a  rakish  straw  hat  tipped  over  his 
handsome  face,  shot  his  gondola  alongside  mine  and 
leaned  over  to  whisper  something  in  Luigi's  ear.  And 
that  was  why  the  girl  in  her  long  black  shawl  stopped, 
and  why  Luigi  immediately  changed  gondolas  and 
made  for  the  quay,  and  why  they  all  talked  together 
for  a  moment,  the  girl  flashing  and  the  boy  beaming, 
and  that  was  why,  too,  they  all  three  disappeared 
a  moment  later  in  the  direction  of  the  high  rookery 

49 


LOEETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYAEDS 

where  lived  the  baffled,  love-sick  Francesco,  his  anx- 
ious father,  the  much-talked-about  mother,  and  the 
Eose  of  the  Shipyards. 

In  a  garden  where  the  soil  is  so  rich  that  a  seed- 
ling of  five — a  mere  slip — blooms  into  flower  before 
a  foolish  old  painter  can  exhaust  the  subjects  along 
the  canal,  it  is  not  surprising  that  a  love  affair  reaches 
its  full  growth  between  two  suns.  Not  since  the  day 
she  had  tumbled  into  the  canal  had  she  gone  so  head- 
over-heels — both  of  them.  Nor  did  Luigi  pull  them 
out.     He  helped  in  the  drowning,  really. 

He  was  talking  to  himself  when  he  came  back — a 
soft  light  in  his  eyes,  a  smile  lingering  around  the 
corners  of  his  up-turned,  grizzled  mustache. 

"  It  is  good  to  be  young,  Signore,  is  it  not  ?  "  was 
all  he  said,  and  at  once  began  bundling  up  my 
traps. 

Before  the  week  was  out, — nay,  before  the  setting  of 
two  suns — every  gossip  along  the  Eiva — and  they 
about  covered  the  population — had  become  convinced 
that  Loretta  was  lost  to  the  Quarter.  Unless  a  wed- 
ding ring  was  to  end  it  all  Vittorio  would  never  be 
so  bold  in  his  attentions  to  Loretta,  as  to  walk  home 
with  her  nights  and  wait  for  her  mornings. 

Luigi  shook  his  head,  but  he  did  not  help  the  gos- 
sips solve  the  problem.  He  had  had  trouble  enough 
already  with  Vittorio's  father. 

50 


LOKETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

"  A  common  wench  from  the  yards,  I  hear, 
Luigi !  "  he  had  blazed  out — "  and  yon,  I  understand, 
brought  them  together — you, — who  have  been  my 
friend  for " 

"  Stop,  Borodini !  ISTot  another  word !  You  are 
angry,  and  when  you  are  angry  you  are  stupid.  I 
carried  that  girl  in  my  arms  when  she  was  a  baby! 
I  have  watched  over  her  ever  since.  A  wench !  Not 
one  of  your  own  daughters  has  a  heart  so  white.  If 
Vittorio  is  so  great  a  coward  as  to  listen  to  their  talk 
I'll  keep  her  for  his  betters.'' 

All  this  snapped  out  of  Luigi's  eyes  and  rolled 
from  under  his  crisp  mustache  as  he  repeated  the  out- 
break to  me.  What  the  end  might  be  neither  the 
Giudecca  nor  San  Giuseppe  could  decide.  The  Boro- 
dinis  were  proud;  Yittorio's  father  was  one  of  the 
gondoliers  belonging  to  the  palace  and  always  rowed 
the  good  Queen  Margherita  when  she  came  incognito 
to  Yenice, — a  post  which  greatly  enhanced  his  social 
station.  Yittorio  was  the  only  son,  and  already  a 
member  of  the  traglietto,  young  as  he  was.  But 
then,  were  there  any  girls  better  than  Loretta,  or  as 
good?  She  helped  her  mother;  she  paid  her  share 
of  the  rent  to  Francesco's  father ;  she  gave  to  the  poor 
box.  That  she  was  the  sunshine  of  the  Quarter  every 
one  knew  who  heard  her  sweet,  cheery  voice.  As  to 
her  f  amilv,  it  was  true  that  her  mother  was  a  Sicilian 

51 


LORETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

who  boiled  over  sometimes  in  a  tempest  of  rage,  like 
Vesuvius, — but  her  father  had  been  one  of  them. 
And  then  again,  was  she  not  the  chosen  friend  of 
Luigi,  the  Primo,  and  of  the  crazy  painter  who 
haunted  the  canal?  The  boy  and  his  father  might 
be  glad,  etc.,  etc. 

The  only  persons  who  were  oblivious  to  the  talk 
were  the  two  lovers.  Their  minds  were  made  up. 
Father  Garola  had  promised,  and  they  knew  exactly 
what  to  do,  and  when  and  where  to  do  it.  In  the 
meantime  the  Riva  was  a  pathway  of  rose-tinted 
clouds  constructed  for  the  especial  use  of  two  angels, 
one  of  whom  wore  a  straw  hat  with  a  red  ribbon 
canted  over  his  sunburnt  face,  and  the  other  a  black 
shawl  with  silken  fringe,  whose  every  movement  sug- 
gested a  caress. 

The  one  disgruntled  person  was  Francesco. 

He  had  supposed  at  first  that,  like  the  others,  Vit- 

torio  would  find  out  his  mistake ; — certainly  when  he 

looked  closely  into  the  pure  eyes  of  the  girl,  and  that 

|  then,  like  the  others,  he  would  give  up  the  chase ; — ■ 

he  not  being  the  first  gay  Lothario  who  had  been 

■  taught  just  such  a  lesson. 

Loretta's  answer  to  the  schemer,  given  with  a  toss 
of  her  head  and  a  curl  of  her  lips,  closed  Francesco's 
mouth  and  set  his  brain  in  a  whirl.  In  his  aston- 
ishment he  had  long  talks  with  his  father,  the  twG 

52 


LOEETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

seated  in  their  boat  against  the  Garden  wall  so  no 
one  could  overhear. 

Once  he  approached  Luigi  and  began  a  tale,  first 
about  Vittorio  and  his  escapades  and  then  about 
Loretta  and  her  coquetry,  which  Luigi  strangled  with 
a  look,  and  which  he  did  not  discuss  or  repeat  to 
me,  except  to  remark — "  They  have  started  in  to 
bite,  Signore,"  the  meaning  of  which  I  could  but 
guess  at.  At  another  time  he  and  his  associates  con- 
cocted a  scheme  by  which  Yittorio's  foot  was  to  slip 
as  he  was  leaving  Loretta  at  the  door,  and  he  be  fished 
out  of  the  canal  with  his  pretty  clothes  begrimed  with 
mud ; — a  scheme  which  was  checked  when  they  began 
to  examine  the  young  gondolier  the  closer,  and  which 
was  entirely  abandoned  when  they  learned  that  his 
father  was  often  employed  about  the  palace  of  the 
king.  In  these  projected  attacks,  strange  to  say,  the 
girl's  mother  took  part.  Her  hope  in  keeping  her 
home  was  in  Loretta's  marrying  Francesco. 

Then,  dog  as  he  was,  he  tried  the  other  plan — all 
this  I  got  from  Luigi,  he  sitting  beside  me,  sharpen- 
ing charcoal  points,  handing  me  a  fresh  brush,  squeez- 
ing out  a  tube  of  color  on  my  palette :  nothing  like  a 
romance  to  a  staid  old  painter;  and  then,  were  not 
both  of  us  in  the  conspiracy  as  abettors,  and  up  to 
our  eyes  in  the  plot  ? 

This  other  plan  was  to  traduce  the  girl.     So  the 

53 


LOKETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYAEDS 

gondoliers  on  the  traghetto  began  to  talk, — behind 
their  hands,  at  first:  She  had  lived  in  Francesco's 
house;  she  had  had  a  dozen  young  fishermen  trapes- 
ing after  her;  her  mother,  too,  was  none  too  good. 
Then  again,  yon  could  never  trust  these  Neapolitans, 
— the  kitten  might  be  like  the  cat,  etc.,  etc. 

Still  the  lovers  floated  up  and  down  the  Riva, 
their  feet  on  clouds,  their  heads  in  the  heavens. 
Never  a  day  did  he  miss,  and  always  with  a  wave 
■of  her  hand  to  me  as  they  passed :  down  to  Malamocco 
on  Sundays  with  another  girl  as  chaperon,  or  over  to 
Mestre  by  boat  for  the  festa,  coming  home  in  the 
moonlight,  the  tip  of  his  cigarette  alone  lighting  her 
face. 

One  morning — the  lovers  had  only  been  waiting 
for  their  month's  pay — Luigi  came  sailing  down  the 
canal  to  my  lodgings,  his  gondola  in  gala  attire, — 
bunches  of  flowers  tied  at  each  corner  of  the  tenda; 
a  mass  of  blossoms  in  the  lamp  socket;  he  himself 
in  his  best  white  suit,  a  new  red  sash  around  his 
waist — his  own  colors — and  off  we  went  to  San 
Rosario  up  the  Giudecca.  And  the  Borodinis  turned 
out  in  great  force,  and  so  did  all  the  other  'inis,  and 
'olas,  and  'ninos — dozens  of  them — and  in  came 
Loretta,  so  beautiful  that  everybody  held  his  breath ; 
and  we  all  gathered  about  the  altar,  and  good 
Father  Garola  stepped  doAvn  and  took  their  hands; 

54 


LORETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

and  two  candles  were  lighted  and  a  little  bell  rang; 
and  then  somebody  signed  a  book — somebody  with 
the  bearing  of  a  prince — Borodini,  I  think — and  theD 
Luigi,  his  rich,  sunburned  face  and  throat  in  contrast 
with  his  white  shirt,  moved  up  and  affixed  his  name 
to  the  register;  and  then  a  door  opened  on  the  side 
and  they  all  went  out  into  the  sunlight. 

I  followed  and  watched  the  gay  procession  on  its 
way  to  the  waiting  boats.  As  I  neared  the  corner  of 
the  church  a  heavily-built  young  fellow  ran  past  me, 
crouched  to  the  pavement,  and  hid  himself  behind  one 
of  the  tall  columns.  Something  in  his  dress  and 
movement  made  me  stop.  Xot  being  sure,  I  edged 
nearer  and  waited  until  he  turned  his  head.  It  was 
Francesco. 


Ill 


The  skies  were  never  more  beautiful  that  May,  the 
blossoms  of  the  oleanders  and  the  almond  trees  neve* 
more  lovely.  "Not  only  was  my  own  canal  alive  with 
the  stir  and  fragrance  of  the  coming  summer,  but  all 
Venice  bore  the  look  of  a  bride  who  had  risen  from 
her  bath,  drawn  aside  the  misty  curtain  of  the  morn- 
ing, and  stood  revealed  in  all  her  loveliness. 

The  sun  shone  everywhere,  I  say,  but  to  me  its 
brightest  rays  fell  on  a  garden  full  of  fig  trees  and 

55 


LORETTA   OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

flat  arbors  interwoven  with  grapevines,  running  down 
to  the  water  where  there  was  a  dock  and  a  gondola — 
two,  sometimes, — our  own  and  Vittorio's — and  par- 
ticularly on  a  low,  two-story,  flat-roofed  house, — a 
kaleidoscope  of  color — pink,  yellow,  and  green,  with 
three  rooms  and  a  portico,  in  which  lived  Vittorio,  a 
bird  in  a  cage,  a  kitten-cat  and  the  Rose  of  the  Ship- 
yards. 

It  is  a  long  way  round  to  my  canal  through  San 
Trovaso  to  the  Zattere  and  across  the  Giudecca  to 
Ponte  Lungo,  and  then  along  the  edge  of  the  lagoon 
to  this  garden  and  dovecote,  but  that  is  the  precise 
route  Luigi,  who  lived  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the 
couple,  selected  morning  after  morning.  He  always 
had  an  excuse : — he  had  forgotten  the  big  bucket  for 
my  water  cups,  or  the  sail,  or  the  extra  chair;  and 
would  the  S ignore  mind  going  back  for  his  other  oar  ? 
Then  again  the  tide  was  bad,  and  after  all  we  might 
as  well  row  down  the  lagoon ;  it  was  easier  and  really 
shorter  with  the  wind  against  us — all  nonsense,  of 
course,  but  I  never  objected. 

"  Ah,  the  Signore  and  dear  Luigi !  "  she  would 
cry  when  she  caught  sight  of  our  gondola  rounding 
into  the  landing.  Then  down  the  path  she  would 
skip,  the  joyous  embodiment  of  beauty  and  grace, 
and  help  me  out,  Luigi  following ;  and  we  would  stroll 
up  under  the  fig  trees,  and  she  would  begin  showing 

56 


LOKETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

me  this  and  that  new  piece  of  furniture,  or  pot,  or 
kettle,  or  new  bread  knife,  or  scissors,  or  spoon,  which 
Vittorio  had  added  to  their  store  since  my  last  visit. 
Or  I  would  find  them  both  busy  over  the  gondola, — 
he  polishing  his  brasses  and  ferro,  and  she  rehanging 
the  curtains  of  the  tenda  which  she  had  washed  and 
ironed  with  her  own  hands. 

In  truth  it  was  a  very  happy  little  nest  that  was 
tucked  away  in  one  corner  of  that  old  abandoned 
garden  with  its  outlook  on  the  broad  water  and  its 
connecting  link  with  the  row  of  neighbors'  houses 
flanking  the  side  canal, — and  no  birds  in  or  out  of 
any  nest  in  all  Venice  ever  sang  so  long  and  so 
continuously  nor  were  there  any  others  so  genu- 
inely happy  the  livelong  day  and  night  as  these 
two. 

Did  I  not  know  something  of  the  curious  mixture 
of  love,  jealousy,  and  suspicion  which  goes  into  the 
making-up  of  an  Italian,  it  would  be  hard  for  me  to 
believe  that  so  lovely  a  structure  as  this  dovecote,  one 
built  with  so  much  hope  and  alight  with  so  much  real 
happiness,  could  ever  come  tumbling  to  the  ground. 
We  Anglo-Saxons  flame  up  indignantly  when  those 
we  love  are  attacked,  and  we  demand  proofs,  Crit- 
ical that  bane  of  Venetian  life — what  this, 
the  other  neighbor  tattles  to  this,  that,  and  the  other 
listener,  we  dismiss  with  a  wave  of  the  hand,  or  with 

57 


LOEETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

fingers  tight  clenched  close  to  the  offender's  lips,  01 
by  a  blow  in  the  face.  Not  so  the  Italian.  He 
also  blazes,  but  he  will  stop  and  wonder  when  his 
anger  has  cooled;  think  of  this  and  that;  put  two 
and  two  together,  and  make  ten  of  what  is  really 
only  fonr.  This  is  what  happened  to  the  nest  under 
the  grapevines. 

I  was  in  my  own  garden  at  the  Britannia  lean- 
ing over  the  marble  balcony,  wondering  what  kept 
Lnigi — it  was  past  ten  o'clock — when  the  news 
reached  me.  I  had  caught  sight  of  his  white  shirt 
and  straw  hat  as  he  swung  out  behind  the  Sal- 
ute and  headed  straight  toward  me,  and  saw  from 
the  way  he  gripped  his  oar  and  stretched  his  long 
body  flat  with  the  force  of  each  thrust,  that  he 
had  a  message  of  importance,  even  before  I  saw  his 
face. 

"A  Dioj  Signore !  "  he  cried.  " What  do  you  think  ? 
Vittorio  has  cursed  Loretta,  torn  her  wedding  ring 
from  her  finger,  and  thrown  it  in  her  face !  " 

"Vittorio!" 

"  Yes, — he  will  listen  to  nothing !  He  is  a  crazy 
■  fool  and  I  have  done  all  I  could.  He  believes  every 
one  of  the  lies  that  crab-catching  brute  of  a  Francesco 
is  telling.  It  would  be  over  by  to-night,  but  Loretta 
does  not  take  it  like  the  others:  she  says  nothing. 
You  know  her  eyes — they  are  not  like  our  Giudecca 

58 


LOKETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

girls.  They  are  burning  now  like  two  coals  of  fire, 
and  her  cheeks  are  like  chalk." 

I  had  stepped  into  the  gondola  by  this  time,  my 
first  thought  being  how  best  to  straighten  out  the 
quarrel. 

"  ~Now  tell  me,  Luigi — speak  slowly,  so  I  do  not 
miss  a  word.    First,  where  is  Loretta  ?  " 

"  She  was  putting  on  her  best  clothes  when  I  left — 
those  she  bought  herself.  She  will  touch  nothing  Yit- 
torio  gave  her.  She  is  going  back  to  her  mother  in 
an  hour." 

"  But  what  happened  ?    Has  Francesco ?  " 

"  Francesco  has  not  stopped  one  minute  since  the 
wedding.  He  has  been  talking  to  the  fish-people, — 
to  everybody  on  the  side  street,  saying  that  Loretta 
was  his  old  shoes  that  he  left  at  his  door,  and  the 
fool  Yittorio  found  them  and  put  them  on — that 
sort  of  talk." 

"  And  Yittorio  believes  it  ?  " 

"  He  did  not  at  first, — but  twice  Francesco  came 
to  see  Loretta  with  messages  from  her  mother,  and 
went  sneaking  off  when  Yittorio  came  up  in  his  boat, 
and  then  that  night  some  one  would  tell  him — l  that 
fellow  meets  Loretta  every  day ;  '  that  he  was  her  old 
lover.  These  people  on  the  Giudecca  do  not  like 
the  San  Giuseppe  people,  and  there  is  always  jealousy. 
If  Yittorio  had  married  any  one  from  his  own  quar- 

59 


LOKETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYAKDS 

ter  it  would  have  been  different.  You  don't  know 
these  people,  Signore, — how  devilish  they  can  be 
and  how  stupid." 

"  That  was  why  he  threw  the  ring  in  her  face  ?  ': 

"  No  and  yes.  Yesterday  was  Sunday,  and  some 
people  came  to  see  her  from  San  Giuseppe,  and  they 
began  to  talk.  I  was  not  there ;  I  did  not  get  there 
until  it  was  all  over,  but  my  wife  heard  it.  They 
were  all  in  the  garden,  and  one  word  led  to  another, 
and  he  taunted  her  with  seeing  Francesco,  and  she 
laughed,  and  that  made  him  furious;  and  then  he 
said  he  had  heard  her  mother  was  a  nobody ;  and  then 
some  one  spoke  up  and  said  that  was  true — fools  all. 
And  then  Loretta,  she  drew  herself  up  straight  and 
asked  who  it  was  had  said  so,  and  a  woman's  voice 
came — '  Francesco, — he  told  me — '  and  then  Yitto- 
rio  cried —  '  And  you  meet  him  here.  Don't  deny 
it!  And  you  love  him,  too! — '  and  then  the  fool 
sprang  at  her  and  caught  her  hand  and  tore  the 
ring  from  her  finger  and  spat  on  it  and  threw  it  on 
the  ground.    He  is  now  at  his  father's  house." 

"  And  she  said  nothing,  Luigi  ?  "  The  story 
seemed  like  some  horrible  dream. 

"  jSTo,  nor  shed  a  tear.  All  she  did  was  to  keep 
repeating — '  Francesco !  Francesco !  Francesco !  '  I 
got  there  at  daylight  this  morning  and  have  been  there 
ever  since.     I  told  her  I  was  coming  for  you.     She 

60 


LOKETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYAKDS 

was  sitting  in  a  chair  when  I  went  in, — bolt  up; 
she  had  not  been  in  her  bed.  She  seems  like  one  in 
a  trance — looked  at  me  and  held  out  her  hand.  I 
tried  to  talk  to  her  and  tell  her  it  was  all  a  lie, 
but  she  only  answered — '  Ask  Francesco, — it  is 
all  Francesco, — ask  Francesco.'  Hurry,  Signore, — 
we  will  miss  her  if  we  go  to  her  house.  We  will 
go  at  once  to  our  canal  and  wait  for  her.  They  have 
heard  nothing  down  there  at  San  Giuseppe,  and  you 
can  talk  to  her  without  being  interrupted,  and  then 
I'll  get  hold  of  Vittorio.     This  way,  Signore." 

I  had  hardly  reached  the  water  landing  of  my  canal 
ten  minutes  later  when  I  caught  sight  of  her,  coming 
directly  toward  me,  head  up,  her  lips  tight-set,  her 
black  shawl  curving  and  floating  with  every  movement 
of  her  body — (nothing  so  wonderfully  graceful  and 
nothing  so  expressive  of  the  wearer's  moods  as  these 
.black  shawls  of  the  Venetians).  She  wore  her  gala 
dress — the  one  in  which  she  was  married — white 
muslin  with  ribbons  of  scarlet,  her  wonderful  hair 
in  a  heap  above  her  forehead,  her  long  gold  earrings 
glinting  in  the  sunshine.  All  the  lovelight  had  died 
out  of  her  eyes.  In  its  place  were  two  deep  hollows 
rimmed  about  by  dark  lines,  from  out  which  flashed 
two  points  of  cold  steel  light. 

I  sprang  from  my  gondola  and  held  out  my  hand : 
"  Sit  down,  Loretta,  and  let  me  talk  to  you." 

61 


LOKETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYAEDS 

She  stopped,  looked  at  me  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way, 
a3  if  she  was  trying  to  focus  my  face  so  as  to  recall 
me  to  her  memory,  and  said  in  a  determined  way : 

"  No,  let  me  pass.  It's  too  late  for  all  that,  Sign- 
ore.     I  am " 

"  But  wait  until  you  hear  me." 

"  I  will  hear  nothing  until  I  find  Francesco." 

"  You  must  not  go  near  him.  Get  into  the  gondola 
and  let  Luigi  and  me  take  you  home." 

A  dry  laugh  rose  to  her  lips.  "  Home !  There 
is  no  home  any  more.  See !  My  ring  is  gone !  Fran- 
cesco is  the  one  I  want — now — now!  He  knows  I 
am  coming, — I  sent  him  word.  Don't  hold  me,  Sign- 
ore, — don't  touch  me !  " 

She  was  gone  before  I  could  stop  her,  her  long, 
striding  walk  increasing  almost  to  a  run,  her  black 
ihawl  swaying  about  her  limbs  as  she  hurried  toward 
her  old  home  at  the  end  of  the  quay.  Luigi  started 
after  her,  but  I  called  him  back.  Nothing  could  be 
done  until  her  fury,  or  her  agony,  had  spent  itself. 
These  volcanoes  are  often  short-lived.  We  looked 
after  her  until  she  had  reached  the  door  and  had 
flung  herself  across  the  threshold.  Then  I  sent  Luigi 
for  my  easel  and  began  work. 

The  events  that  have  made  the  greatest  impression 
upon  me  all  my  life  have  been  those  which  have 

62 


LOKETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

dropped  out  of  the  sky, — the  unexpected,  the  incom- 
prehensible,— the  unnecessary — the  fool  things — the 
damnably  idiotic  things. 

First  we  heard  a  cry  that  caused  Luigi  to  drop 
canvas  and  easel,  and  sent  us  both  flying  down  the 
quay  toward  the  rookery.  It  came  from  Loretta's 
mother; — she  was  out  on  the  sidewalk  tearing  her 
hair;  calling  on  God;  uttering  shriek  after  shriek. 
The  quay  and  bridge  were  a  mass  of  people — some 
looking  with  staring  eyes,  the  children  hugging  their 
mothers'  skirts.  Two  brawny  fishermen  were  clear- 
ing the  way  to  the  door.  Luigi  and  I  sprang  in 
behind  them,  and  entered  the  Jiouse. 

On  the  stone  floor  of  the  room  lay  the  body 
of  Francesco,  his  head  stretched  back,  one  hand 
clutching  the  bosom  of  his  shirt.  Against  the  wall 
stood  Loretta ;  not  a  quiver  on  her  lips ;  ghastly 
white ;  calm,  —  the  least  excited  person  in  the 
room. 

"  And  you  killed  him !  "  I  cried. 

"  Yes, — he  thought  I  came  to  kiss  him — I  did, 
with  this!  "  and  she  tossed  a  knife  on  the  table. 

The  days  that  followed  were  gray  days  for  Luigi 
and  me.  All  the  light  and  loveliness  were  gone  from 
my  canal. 

They  took  Loretta  to  the  prison  next  the  Bridge  of 

63 


LOEETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYAEDS 

Sighs  and  locked  her  up  in  one  of  the  mouldy  ceiia 
below  the  water  line — dark,  dismal  pockets  where,  in 
the  old  davs,  men  died  of  terror. 

Vittorio,  Luigi,  and  I  met  there  the  next  morning. 
I  knew  the  chief  officer,  and  he  had  promised  me 
an  interview.  Vittorio  was  crying, — rubbing  his 
knuckles  in  his  eyes, — utterly  broken  up  and  ex- 
hausted. He  and  Luigi  had  spent  the  night  together. 
An  hour  before,  the  two  had  stood  at  Francesco's  bed- 
side in  the  hospital  of  San  Paulo.  Francesco  was  still 
alive,  and  with  Father  Garola  bending  over  him  had 
repeated  his  confession  to  them  both.  He  was  madly 
in  love  with  her,  he  moaned,  and  had  spread  the 
report  hoping  that  Vittorio  would  cast  her  off,  and, 
having  no  other  place  to  go,  Loretta  would  come  back 
to  him.  At  this  Vittorio  broke  into  a  rage  and  would 
have  strangled  the  dying  man  had  not  the  attendant 
interfered.  All  this  I  learned  from  Luigi  as  we 
waited  for  the  official. 

"  This  is  a  frightful  ending  to  a  happy  life — "  I 
began  when  the  officer  appeared.  "  Let  them  talk 
to  each  other  for  just  a  few  moments.  It  can  do  no 
harm." 

The  official  shook  his  head.  "  It  is  against  orders, 
Signore,  I  cannot.  He  can  see  her  when  she  is 
brought  up  for  examination." 

"  They  will  both  have  lost  their  senses  by  that 

64 


LOKETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYAKDS 

time/'  I  pleaded.  a  Can't  you  think  of  some  way  %  I 
have  known  her  from  a  child.  Perhaps  an  order  from 
headquarters  might  be  of  some  use."  We  were  stand- 
ing, at  the  time,  in  a  long  corridor  ending  in  a  door 
protected  by  an  iron  grating.  This  led  to  the  under- 
ground cells. 

The  chief  fastened  his  eyes  on  me  for  an  instant, 
turned  abruptly,  called  to  an  attendant,  gave  an  order 
in  a  low  voice  and,  with  the  words  to  Yittorio — 
"  You  are  not  to  speak  to  her,  remember,"  motioned 
the  sobbing  man  toward  the  grating.  Luigi  and  I 
followed. 

She  came  slowly  out  of  the  shadows,  first  the 
drawn  face  peering  ahead,  as  if  wondering  why  she 
had  been  sent  for,  then  the  white  crumpled  dress, 
and  then  the  dark  eyes  searching  the  gloom  of  the 
corridor.  Yittorio  had  caught  sight  of  her  and  was 
clinging  to  the  grating,  his  body  shaking,  his  tears 
blinding  him. 

The  girl  gave  a  half-smothered  cry,  darted  forward 
and  covered  Yittorio's  hands  with  her  own.  Some 
whispered  word  must  have  followed,  for  the  old  light 
broke  over  her  face  and  she  would  have  cried  out  for 
joy  had  not  Luigi  cautioned  her.  For  a  moment  the 
two  stood  with  fingers  intertwined,  their  bowed  fore- 
heads kept  apart  by  the  cold  grating.  Then  the  boy, 
straining  his  face  between  the  bars,  as  if  to  reach  her 

65 


LOEETTA   OF    THE    SHIPYAEDS 

lips,  loosened  one  hand,   took  something  from  his 
pocket  and  slipped  it  over  her  finger. 
It  was  her  wedding  ring. 


IV 

Summer  has  faded,  the  gold  of  autumn  has  turned 
to  brown,  and  the  raw,  cold  winds  of  winter  have 
whirled  the  dead  leaves  over  rookeries,  quay,  and 
garden.  The  boats  rock  at  their  tethers  and  now  and 
then  a  sea  gull  darts  through  the  canal  and  sweeps  on 
to  the  lagoon.  In  the  narrow  opening  fronting  the 
broad  waters  lawless  waves  quarrel  and  clash,  forcing 
their  way  among  the  frightened  ripples  of  San  Giu- 
seppe, ashy  gray  under  the  lowering  sky. 

All  these  months  a  girl  has  clung  to  an  iron  grating 
or  has  lain  on  a  pallet  in  one  corner  of  her  cell. 
Once  in  a  while  she  presses  her  lips  to  a  ring  on  her 
left  hand,  her  face  lighting  up.  Sometimes  she 
breaks  out  into  a  song,  continuing  until  the  keeper 
checks  her. 

Then  spring  comes. 

And  with  it  the  painter  from  over  the  sea. 

All  the  way  from  Milan  as  far  as  Verona,  and 
beyond,  there  have  been  nothing  but  blossoms, — 
masses  of  blossoms, — oleander,  peach,  and  almond. 

66 


LOEETTA    OF    THE    SHIPYARDS 

"When  the  train  reaches  Mestre  and  the  cool  salt  air 
fans  his  cheek,  he  can  no  longer  keep  his  seat,  so  eager 
is  he  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  his  beloved  city, — 
now  a  string  of  pearls  on  the  bosom  of  the  lagoon. 

Lnigi  has  the  painter's  hand  before  his  feet  can 
touch  the  platform. 

"  Good  news,  Signore !  "  he  laughs,  patting  my 
shoulder.     "  She  is  free !  " 

"  Loretta !  " 

"  Yes, — she  and  Yittorio  are  back  in  their  garden. 
Borodini  told  the  whole  story  to  the  good  Queen 
Mother  when  she  came  at  Easter,  and  the  king  par- 
doned her." 

"  Pardoned  her !    And  Francesco  dead !  " 

"  Dead !  Xo  such  good  luck,  Signore, — that  brute 
of  a  crab-fisher  got  well !  " 


67 


A  COAT  OF  RED  LEAD 


A  COAT  OF  RED   LEAD 


My  offices  are  on  the  top  floor  of  a  high  building 
overlooking  the  East  River  and  the  harbor  beyond — 
not  one  of  those  skyscrapers  punctured  with  windows 
all  of  the  same  size,  looking  from  a  distance  like  huge 
waffles  set  up  on  end — note  the  water-line  of  New 
York  the  next  time  you  cross  the  ferry  and  see  if 
you  don't  find  the  waffles — but  an  old-fashioned  sort 
of  a  high  building  of  twenty  years  ago — old  as  the 
Pyramids  now,  with  a  friendly  janitor  who  comes  to 
me  when  I  send  for  him  instead  of  my  going  to  his 
"  Office  "  when  he  sends  for  me ;  friendly  elevator 
boys  who  poke  their  heads  from  out  their  iron  cages 
and  wait  five  seconds  until  I  reach  them,  and  an 
obliging  landlord  who  lets  me  use  his  telephone. 

Mawkum,  my  chief  draftsman — when  you  have 
only  one  it  is  best  to  label  him  "  Chief  "  to  your 
clients ;  they  think  the  others  are  off  building  bridges 
for  foreign  governments,  or  lunching  at  Delmonico's 

71 


A  COAT  OF  KED  LEAD 

with  railroad  presidents — my  chief  draftsman,  I  say, 
occupies  the  room  opening  into  mine.  His  outlook 
is  a  brick  wall  decorated  with  windows,  behind  which 
can  be  seen  various  clerks  poring  over  huge  ledgers, 
a  section  of  the  roof  topped  with  a  chimney,  and  in 
the  blue  perspective  the  square,  squat  tower  of  the 
Produce  Exchange  in  which  hangs  a  clock.  Both  of 
these  connecting  rooms  open  on  the  same  corridor,  a 
convenient  arrangement  when  clients  wish  to  escape 
without  being  seen,  or  for  the  concealing  of  bidders 
who  are  getting  plans  and  specifications  for  the  same 
tenders,  especially  when  two  of  them  happen  to  turn 
up  at  the  same  moment. 

Mawkum  manages  this,  and  with  such  adroitness 
that  I  have  often  seen  clients,  under  the  impression 
that  the  drafting-room  was  full,  sit  patiently  in  my 
office  and  take  their  turn  while  he  quietly  munches 
his  sandwich  behind  closed  panels — an  illusion  sus- 
tained by  a  loud  "  Good-morning  "  from  my  chief 
addressed  to  the  circumambient  air,  followed  by  the 
slamming  of  the  corridor  door.  When  I  remonstrate 
tfith  Mawkum,  insisting  that  such  subterfuges  are 
ibeneath  the  dignity  of  the  office,  he  contends  that  they 
help  business,  and  in  proof  quotes  the  old  story  of 
the  unknown  dentist  who  compelled  a  suffering  prince 
to  call  the  next  day  at  noon,  claiming  that  his  list 
was  full,  when  neither  man,  woman  nor  child  had 

72 


A  COAT  OF  KED  LEAD 

been  in  his  chair  for  over  a  week — fame  and  fortune 
being  his  ever  after. 

When  Mawkum  gets  tired  of  inspecting  the  brick 
wall  and  the  industrious  clerks  and  the  face  of  the 
clock,  he  strolls  leisurely  into  my  room,  plants  himself 
at  my  window — this  occurs  during  one  of  those  calm^ 
that  so  often  come  to  an  office  between  contracts — and 
spends  hours  in  contemplating  the  view. 

To  me  the  stretch  of  sky  and  water,  with  its  divid- 
ing band  of  roof,  tower  and  wharf,  stretching  from 
the  loop  of  steel — that  spider-web  of  the  mighty — to 
the  straight  line  of  the  sea,  is  a  never-ending  delight. 
In  the  early  morning  its  broken  outline  is  softened 
by  a  veil  of  silver  mist  embroidered  with  puffs 
of  steam;  at  midday  the  glare  of  light  flashing  from 
the  river's  surface  makes  silhouettes  of  the  ferry- 
shuttles  threading  back  and  forth  weaving  the  city's 
life;  at  twilight  the  background  of  purple  is  bathed 
in  the  glory  of  the  sunset,  while  at  night  myriads  of 
fireflies  swarm  and  settle,  tracing  in  pencilling^  of 
fire  the  plan  of  the  distant  town. 

Mawkum,  being  commercially  disposed,  sees  none 
of  these  things ;  his  gaze  is  fixed  on  the  panting  tugs 
towing  chains  of  canal  boats;  on  the  great  floats 
loaded  with  cars  and  the  stately  steamers  slowing 
down  opposite  their  docks.  Today  he  develops  an 
especial  interest. 

73 


A  COAT  OF  BED  LEAD 

"  That's  the  Tampico  in  from  Caracas  and  the 
Coast,"  he  says,  leaning  across  my  desk,  his  fat 
hand  resting  on  my  letter  file.  "  She's  loaded  pretty 
deep.  Hides  and  tallow,  I  guess.  'Bout  time  we 
heard  from  that  Moccador  Lighthouse,  isn't  it  ?  Law- 
ton's  last  letter  said  we  could  look  for  his  friend  in 
a  month — about  due  now.  Wish  he'd  come."  And 
he  yawned  wearily. 

Mawkum's  yawn  indicated  the  state  of  his  mindt 
He  had  spent  the  previous  three  weeks  in  elaborating 
the  plans  and  specifications  for  a  caisson  to  be  used 
under  a  bridge  pier — our  client  assuring  him  that 
he  had,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  a  dead  sure  thing  on 
the  award."  When  the  bids  were  opened,  Mawkum 
congratulated  him  on  his  foresight  and  offered  to 
attend  the  funeral  in  a  body,  the  client's  bid  being 
some  thirty  per  cent,  too  high.  Little  episodes  like 
this  add  a  touch  of  gayety  to  the  hours  spent  in  the 
top  of  the  high  building. 

Mawkum's  yawn  over — it  is  generally  in  three 
sections,  but  can  sometimes  be  curtailed — I  inter- 
rupted hurriedly  with : 

"  What  sort  of  a  structure  is  it  ?  "  I  knew,  but  I 
wanted  some  other  employment  for  his  mouth. 

"  First  order,  screw  pile,  about  a  hundred  and 
twenty  feet  high,  stuck  on  a  coral  reef  at  the  mouth 
of  the  harbor.     'Bout  like  our  Fowey  Eocks,  off  the 

74 


A  COAT  OF  BED  LEAD 

Florida  coast.  She's  backing  in."  His  eves  were 
still  on  the  Tampico,  the  floes  of  Xorth  River  ice 
hemming  her  in  on  all  sides.  "  Passengers'll  be  off 
in  an  hour.  Wonder  how  they  like  our  climate — 
little  chilly  for  pajamas.'7 

Here  Mawkum  strolled  into  his  room  and  began 
overhauling  the  contents  of  a  rack  of  drawings  piled 
one  on  top  of  the  other  like  cordwood,  labelled: 
"  Screw  Pile  Structures." 

The  next  morning  there  came  a  timid  knock  at 
Mawkum' s  door — the  knock  of  a  child  with  matches 
to  sell,  or  of  one  of  those  dear  sisters  who  collect 
for  the  poor.  At  a  second  summons,  a  little  louder 
than  the  first,  the  chief,  with  an  impatient  air,  slid 
from  the  high  stool  facing  his  drawing  board,  and 
threw  wide  the  door. 

I  craned  my  head  and  discovered  a  small,  ivory- 
tinted  individual  in  a  Panama  hat,  duck  trousers  and 
patent-leather  shoes.  Wrapped  about  his  shrivelled 
frame,  one  red-lined  end  tossed  gallantly  over  his 
shoulder,  was  an  enormous  Spanish  capa.  This  hid 
every  part  of  his  body  from  his  chin  to  the  knees  of 
his  cotton  ducks.  From  where  I  sat  he  looked  like 
a  conspirator  in  the  play,  or  the  assassin  who  lies  in 
wait  up  the  dark  alley.  Once  inside  he  wrinkled  his 
shoulders  with  the  shivering  movement  of  a  horse 
dislocating  a  fly,  dropped  the  red-lined  end  of  the 

75 


A    COAT    OF    KED    LEAD 

capa,  removed  his  Panama  and  began  a  series  of  genu- 
flections which  showed  me  at  once  that  he  had  been 
born  among  a  people  who  imbibed  courtesy  with  their 
mother's,  or  their  cocoanut's,  milk. 

"  I  am  look'  for  the  Grandioso  Engineer/'  said  the 

visitor.    "  I  am  Seiior  Garlicho "    Then  a  shade 

of  uncertainty  crossed  his  face:  Mawkum  was  still 
staring  at  him.  "  It  is  a  mistake  then,  perhaps  ?  I 
have  a  letter  from  Seiior  Law-^on.  Is  it  not  to  the 
great  designer  of  lighthouse  which  I  speak  ? ?;  This 
came  with  more  bows — one  almost  to  the  floor. 

The  mention  of  Lawton's  name  brought  Mawkum 
to  his  senses.  He  placed  his  fat  hand  on  his  vest, 
crooked  his  back,  and  without  the  slightest  allusion 
to  the  fact  that  the  original  and  only  Grandioso  occu- 
pied the  adjoining  room,  motioned  the  visitor  to  a 
seat  and  opened  the  letter. 

I  thought  now  it  was  about  time  I  should  assert 
my  rights.  Pushing  back  my  chair,  I  walked  rapidly 
through  my  own  and  Mawkum's  room  and  held  out 
my  hand. 

"  Ah,  Seiior,  I  am  delighted  to  meet  you,"  I  broke 
out  in  Spanish.  (Here  I  had  Mawkum — he  did  not 
understand  a  word.)  "  We  have  been  expecting  you  j 
our  mutual  friend,  Mr.  Lawton,  has  given  me  notice 
of  your  coming — and  how  is  the  Senor  and  his 
family  ?  "     And  in  a  few  minutes  we  three  were 

76 


A    COAT    OP   RED   LEAD 

seated  at  my  desk  with  Mawkum  unrolling  plans, 
making  sketches  on  a  pad,  figuring  the  cost  of  this 
and  that  and  the  other  thing;  I  translating  for  Maw- 
kum such  statements  as  I  thought  he  ougl?t  to  know, 
thus  restoring  the  discipline  and  dignity  of  the  office 
— it  never  being  wise  to  have  more  than  one  head  to  a 
concern. 

This  partial  victory  was  made  complete  when  his 
ivory-tinted  Excellency  loosened  his  waistcoat,  dived 
into  his  inside  pocket  and,  producing  a  package  of  let- 
ters tied  with  a  string,  the  envelopes  emblazoned  with 
the  arms  and  seal  of  the  Republic  of  Moccador,  asked 
if  we  might  be  alone.  I  immediately  answered,  both 
in  Spanish  and  English,  that  I  had  no  secrets  from 
Seiior  Mawkum,  but  this  did  not  prove  satisfactory, 
and  so  Mawkum,  with  a  wink  to  me,  withdrew. 

Mawkum  gone,  the  little  man — it  is  inconceivable 
how  small  and  withered  he  was;  how  yellow,  how 
spidery  in  many  of  his  motions,  especially  with  his 
fingers  stained  with  cigarettes,  how  punctilious,  how 
polite,  how  soft  and  insinuating  his  voice,  and  how 
treacherous  his  smile — a  smile  that  smiled  all  alone 
by  itself,  while  the  cunning,  glittering  eyes  recorded 
an  entirely  different  brain  suggestion — Mawkum 
gone,  I  say,  the  little  man  examined  the  door  to  see 
that  it  was  tight  shut,  glanced  furtively  about  the 
room,  resumed  his  seat,  slowly  opened  the  largest 

77 


A    COAT    OF   RED   LEAD 

and  most  flaringly  decorated  envelope  and  produced 
i  document  signed  with  a  name  and  titles  that  covered 
half  the  page.  Then  he  began  to  talk  at  the  rate  of 
fifty  words  to  the  second;  like  the  rattle  of  a  ticker 
in  a  panic :  of  Alvarez,  the  saviour  of  his  country — 
his  friend ! — his  partner ;  of  the  future  of  Moccador 
under  his  wise  and  beneficent  influence,  the  Light- 
house being  one  of  the  first  improvements ;  of  its  being 
given  to  him  to  erect  because  of  his  loyalty  to  the 
cause,  and  to  the  part  he  had  taken  in  overturning 
that  despot,  the  Tyrant  Paramba,  who  had  ruled 
the  republic  with  a  rod  of  iron.  Now  it  was  all  over 
— Paramba  was  living  in  the  swamps,  hunted  like 
a  dog.  When  he  was  caught — and  they  expected  it 
every  day — he  would  be  brought  to  the  capital,  San 
Juan,  in  chains — yes,  Serior,  in  chains — and  put  to 
work  on  the  roads,  so  that  everybody  could  spit  upon 
him — traitor !  Beast,  that  he  was !  And  there  would 
be  other  lighthouses— the  whole  coast  was  to  be  as 
light  as  day.  Senor  Law-fon  had  said  he  could  speak 
with  perfect  confidence — he  was  doing  so,  trusting 
to  the  honor  of  the  Grandioso — the  most  distinguished 
— etc.,  etc.  And  now — this  in  a  summing-up  voice 
with  a  slower  movement,  about  twenty  words  to  the 
second — would  the  Grandioso  go  in  as  a  partner  in 
these  ventures?  The  income  he  could  assure  me 
would  be  so  fixed  that  the  light  dues  alone  would  pav 

78 


A  COAT  OF  EED  LEAD 

for  the  structure  in  two  years — think  of  it,  Senor? 
in  two  years — perhaps  less ! — and  forever  after  we 
could  both  sit  down  and  receive  a  small  fortune,  I 
by  the  Tampico  in  drafts  signed  by  his  Excellency, 
and  he  in  his  own  hacienda  surrounded  by  the  patriots 
who  honored  him  and  the  wife  and  children  he 
adored. 

At  mention  of  the  partnership  a  vague,  cloudy 
expression  crossed  my  face;  my  companion  caught 
it,  and  continued: 

Or  (again  the  voice  slowed  down)  I  would  be  paid 
for  the  structure  on  its  erection  by  me  on  the  reef. 

Again  my  eyes  wandered,  and  again  he  took  the 
cue: 

Or — if  that  was  not  satisfactory — he  would  be 
willing  to  pay  for  the  ironwork  alone  as  soon  as  it 
arrived  in  the  harbor  of  San  Juan. 

My  Spanish  is  more  like  an  old  uniform  that  is 
rubbed  up  for  a  parade  and  then  put  away  in  cam- 
phor. Much  of  his  talk  was  therefore  lost  on  me ;  but 
the  last  sentences  were  as  clear  as  if  they  had  dropped 
from  the  lips  of  my  old  teacher,  Senor  Morales. 

Half -rising  from  my  chair,  I  placed  my  hand  over 
my  shirt-front  and  thanked  his  Excellency  for  his 
confidence — really  one  of  the  greatest  compliments 
that  had  ever  been  paid  me  in  all  my  professional 
career.     To  be  at  once  the  partner  of  two  such  dis- 

79 


A    COAT    OF    KED    LEAD 

tinguished  caballeros  as  General  Alvarez,  the  saviour 
of  his  country,  and  my  distinguished  guest,  was  an 
honor  that  few  men  could  resist,  but — but — here  I 
picked  up  a  lead  j>encil  and  a  pad — BUT — the  only 
way  I  could  permit  myself  to  rob  him  of  his  just 
desserts  would  be — here  I  traced  a  few  lines  on  the 
pad — would  be — my  voice  now  became  impressive — 
to  receive  one-third  when  it  was  erected  in  the  yard 
in  Brooklyn,  and  the  balance  on  delivery  of  the  bills 
of  lading  to  his  agent;  payments  to  be  made  by  his 
distinguished  Excellency's  bankers  in  New  York. 

If  the  modification  of  terms  in  any  way  disap- 
pointed the  gentleman  from  San  Juan,  my  closest 
observation  of  his  smile  and  glance  failed  to  detect 
it.  He  merely  quivered  his  shoulders — a  sort  of 
plural  shrug — rolled  his  cigarette  tighter  between 
his  thumb  and  forefinger,  remarked  that  the  memo- 
randa were  entirely  satisfactory,  and  folding  the 
paper  slid  it  carefully  into  his  pocket;  then  with  a 
series  of  salaams  that  reminded  me  of  a  Mohamme- 
dan spreading  a  prayer  rug,  and  an  "  A  Dioss 
Senor,"  the  ivory-tinted  individual  withdrew. 

A  week  later  Mawkum,  carrying  a  tin  case  ad- 
dressed to  his  sun-dried  Excellency,  passed  up  the 
gangplank  of  the  Tampico;  this  he  placed  in  that 
gentleman's  hands.  Inside  its  soldered  top  were 
the  plans  and  specifications  of  a  First  Order  Light, 

80 


A    COAT    OF   EED    LEAD 

to  be  made  of  iron,  to  be  properly  packed,  and 
to  have  three  coats  of  red  lead  before  shipment — to- 
gether with  a  cross-section  of  foundation  to  be  placed 
on  the  reef  known  as  "  La  Garra  de  Lobo  " — The 
Claw  of  the  Wolf — outside  the  harbor  of  San  Juan — 
all  at  the  risk  of  his  Supreme  Excellency,  Senor 
Tomas  Correntes  Garlicho,  of  the  Republic  of  Mocca- 
dor,  South  America — the  price  of  the  ironwork  to 
hold  good  for  three  months. 

On  his  return  to  the  office  Mawkum  took  up  his 
position  once  more  at  my  window,  waited  until  the 
Tampico,  the  case  and  his  Excellency  were  well  on 
their  way  to  Sandy  Hook  and  started  in  on  other 
work.  The  next  day  the  incident,  like  so  many  simi- 
lar ventures — his  racks  were  full  of  just  such  esti- 
mates— was  forgotten.  If  any  of  the  bread  thus  cast 
upon  the  waters  came  back,  the  chief  would  be  glad, 
and  so  would  the  Grandioso;  if  not,  we  were  both 
willing  to  cut  a  fresh  slice  to  keep  it  company. 


II 


Four  months  passed.  The  ice  was  out  of  the  river ; 
the  steam  heat  had  been  turned  off  in  the  high  build- 
ing and  the  two  time-worn  awnings  had  been  fixed  to 
my  windows  by  the  obliging  janitor.  The  Tampico 
had  come  and  gone,  and  had  come  again.    Its  arrivals, 

81 


A  COAT  OF  KED  LEAD 

and  departures  were,  as  usual,  always  commented 
upon  by  Mawkum,  generally  in  connection  with 
"  That  Bunch  of  Dried  Garlic,"  that  being  the  irrev- 
erent way  in  which  he  spoke  of  his  ivory-tinted  Ex- 
cellency. Otherwise  the  lighthouse,  and  all  that  per- 
tained to  it,  had  become  ancient  history. 

One  lovely  spring  morning — one  of  those  warm 
mornings  when  every  window  and  door  is  wide  open 
to  get  the  breeze  from  Sandy  Hook  and  beyond — 
another  visitor  stepped  into  Mawkum's  room.  He 
brought  no  letters  of  introduction,  nor  did  he  confine 
himself  to  his  mother  tongue,  although  his  nationality 
was  as  apparent  as  that  of  his  predecessor.  Neither 
did  he  possess  a  trace  of  Garlicho's  affability  or 
polish.  On  the  contrary,  he  conducted  himself  like 
a  muleteer,  and  spoke  with  the  same  sort  of  brutal 
authority. 

And  the  differences  did  not  stop  here.  Garlicho 
was  shrivelled  and  sun-dried.  This  man  was  round 
and  plump — plump  as  a  stuffed  olive  fished  from  a 
jar  of  oil,  and  as  shiny;  dark-skinned,  with  a  pair  of 
heavy  eyebrows  that  met  over  a  stub  of  a  nose  ending 
in  a  knob;  two  keen  rat  eyes,  a  mouth  hidden  by  a 
lump  of  a  mustache  black  as  tar,  and  a  sagging, 
flabby  chin  which  slunk  into  his  collar.  iSText  came 
a  shirt-front  soiled  and  crumpled,  and  then  the  rest 
of  him  in  a  suit  of  bombazine. 

82 


A  COAT  OF  KED  LEAD 

"  You  designed  a  lighthouse  some  months  ago  for 
Mr.  Garlicho,  of  San  Juan,"  he  blurted  out  with 
hardly  an  accent.  "  I  arrived  this  morning  by  the 
Tampico.  My  name  is  Carlos  Onativia."  And  he 
laid  a  thin,  elongated  piece  of  cardboard  on  Maw- 
kum's  desk. 

Only  the  arrival  of  a  South  American  fresh  from 
the  Kepublic  of  Moccador,  with  a  spade  designed  to 
dig  up  a  long-buried  treasure  could  have  robbed 
Mawkum  of  his  habitual  caution  of  always  guarding 
plans  and  estimates  from  outsiders — a  custom  which 
was  really  one  of  the  fundamental  laws  of  the  office. 
The  indiscretion  was  no  doubt  helped  by  the  dis- 
covery that  the  owner  of  the  spade  spoke  English,  a 
fact  which  freed  him  at  once  of  all  dependence  on 
the  superior  lingual  attainments  possessed  by  the 
Grandioso  in  the  adjoining  room. 

Down  came  the  duplicate  blue-prints  without  a 
word  of  protest  or  any  further  inquiry,  and  before  I 
could  reach  the  inquirer's  side  and  be  properly  intro- 
duced— I  did  not  want  to  interfere  too  abruptly — 
Mawkum  had  not  only  unrolled  the  elevation  and 
cross-sections,  but  had  handed  out  a  memorandum 
showing  the  estimate  of  cost. 

Onativia  acknowledged  my  presence  with  a  slight 
bob  of  his  head,  loosened  the  upper  button  of  his 
coat,  fished  up  a  pair  of  glasses,  stuck  them  on  the 

83 


A  COAT  OF  KED  LEAD 

knob  end  of  his  nose,  and  began  devouring  the  plans 
in  a  way  that  showed  both  of  us  that  it  was  not  the 
first  time  he  had  looked  over  a  set  of  blue-prints. 

"  This  estimate  is  for  the  ironwork  alone/'  the 
stranger  said,  "and  is,  as  you  see,  good  for  three 
months.  The  time,  as  you  will  note,  has  expired.  Do 
you  now  ask  for  an  additional  sum,  or  will  the  price 
stand  ?  "  All  this  in  the  tone  of  a  Tombs  lawyer 
cross-examining  a  witness. 

Mawkum  murmured  that,  as  there  had  been  no 
advance  in  the  cost  of  the  raw  material,  the  price 
would  stand. 

"  Very  well.  And  now,  what,  in  your  judgment, 
should  be  added  for  the  cost  of  erection  ? '; 

"  Can't  say,"  answered  Mawkum ;  "  don't  know  the 
coast  or  kind  of  labor,  or  the  bottom  of  the  reef — 
may  be  coral,  may  be  hard-pan,  may  be  sand.    Do  you 

know  ?  " 

"  Yes — the  coast  is  an  ugly  one,  except  four 
months  in  the  year.  Site  is  twelve  miles  from  San 
Juan,  exposed  to  the  rake  of  the  sea ;  bottom  coral, 
I  understand;  labor  cheap  and  good  for  nothing, 
and  appliances  none — except  what  can  be  shipped 
from  here."  This  came  with  the  air  of  one  who 
knew. 

I  now  took  charge  of  the  negotiations : 
"  We  have  refused  to  erect  the  structure  or  be 

84 


A    COAT    OF   KED   LEAD 

responsible  for  it  after  it  leaves  our  dock.  We  told 
Senor  Garlicho  so." 

Onativia  lowered  his  chin,  arched  his  eyebrows 
and  looked  at  me  over  his  glasses. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  erect  it,"  he  said  in  a  purring 
tone  Tvith  a  patronizing  strain  through  it.  "  I'll  do 
that.  What  I  want  to  know  is  what  it  would  cost 
here  ?    That's  what  I  came  to  New  York  to  find  out." 

"  Has  Senor  Garlicho  been  awarded  the  contract  ?  " 
I  asked.  It  was  useless  to  distribute  any  more  bread 
upon  the  waters ;  certainly  not  on  the  ripples  washing 
the  shores  of  Moccador.  If  there  were  any  business 
in  sight  I  could  very  easily  give  either  one  of  them 
an  approximate  cost;  if  there  were  none  the  bakery 
was  closed. 

"  No,  Senor  Garlicho  has  not  been  awarded  the 
contract.  I  am  here  to  keep  the  affair  alive.  If  I 
had  thought  it  necessary  I  would  have  brought  a 
certified  check  with  me  drawn  to  your  order,  which 
I  would  have  handed  you  with  my  card.  The  stand- 
ing of  your  firm  prevented  my  doing  so.  This  is 
business,  and  I  want  to  get  back  home  as  quick  as 
possible.  Our  coast  is  a  dangerous  one  and  the  loss 
of  life  increases  every  year.  Do  you  want  this  matter 
hung  up  for  six  weeks  until  we  can  communicate  with 
Mr.  Garlicho?  Every  hour's  delay  in  putting  the 
light  on  the  Lobo  means  that  many  more  deaths."   As 

85 


A  COAT  OF  EED  LEAD 

lie  spoke  a  peculiar  smile  struggled  from  under  his 
black  dab  of  a  mustache,  got  as  far  as  the  base  of  his 
nose  and  there  collapsed. 

My  duty  was  now  clear.  Senor  Garlicho,  for  some 
reason  unknown  to  me,  had  waited  until  his  option 
had  expired  and  had  then  sent  Onativia  in  his  place. 
This  wiped  out  the  past  and  made  a  new  deal  neces- 
sary— one  which  included  the  price  of  erection  on 
the  reef,  a  point  which  had  not  been  raised  in  the 
former  negotiation. 

"  All  right,"  I  said,  "  you  shall  have  the  estimate. 
What  you  want  is  the  cost  of  erecting  a  structure  like 
the  one  here  in  the  plans.  Well,  if  it  was  to  be  put 
on  our  Florida  coast,  where  I  think  the  conditions 
are  somewhat  similar  to  those  you  describe,  I  would 
advise  you  to  add  about  one  hundred  thousand  dollars 
to  the  cost  of  the  ironwork." 

"  Is  that  safe  ?  "  Again  the  smile  worked  itself 
loose. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  if  you  don't  lose  your  plant  too 
often  by  bad  weather.  We  have  warnings  of  our  coast 
storms  and  can  provide  against  them.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  yours — what  are  they  like  ? '; 

"  They  come  suddenly  and  without  warning,"  he 
rejoined;  "  typhoons,  generally,  with  the  tiles  rattling 
off  the  roofs  and  the  natives  hugging  the  cocoanut 
trees."      With  this  he  turned  to  the  plans   again. 

86 


A  COAT  OF  RED  LEAD 

u  Better  add  another  twenty  thousand — I  want  to  be 
safe,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  showed  me  he  had  at 
last  made  np  his  mind. 

I  added  it,  marking  the  sum  on  the  memorandum 
which  ALawkum  had  given  him. 

"  Xow,  please  put  that 'in  writing  over  your  signa- 
ture. I'll  call  to-morrow  at  ten  for  the  document. 
Good-day." 

When  he  was  well  down  the  corridor — we  waited 
really  until  we  heard  the  down-chug  of  the  elevator — 
Mawkirm  looked  at  me  and  gave  a  low  whistle. 

"  Add  another  twenty !  What  do  you  think  is  up  ? 
That  Bunch  of  Garlic  is  working  some  funny  busi- 
ness, or  he  wouldn't  have  sent  that  brigand  up  here." 

I  ruminated  for  a  moment,  walked  to  the  window 
and  took  in  the  brick  wall,  the  clerks  and  the  clock 
tower.  Frankly,  I  did  not  know  what  Garlicho  was 
up  to.  It  was  the  first  time  that  any  passenger  by 
the  Tampico,  or  any  other  steamer,  from  any  quarter 
of  the  globe,  had  asked  either  Mawkum  or  myself  to 
add  one  penny  to  the  cost  of  anything.  The  effort 
heretofore  had  been  to  cut  down  each  item  to  the  last 
cent.  Was  the  ivory-tinted  gentleman  going  to  build 
the  lighthouse  at  his  own  expense  out  of  loyalty  to 
President  Alvarez,  the  saviour  of  his  country,  and 
then  donate  it  to  the  Government,  using  our  estimate 
to  prove  the  extent  of  his  generosity  ?     Or  was  there 

87 


A  COAT  OF  KED  LEAD 

a  trick  somewhere  ?  I  decided  to  sound  Seflor  Ona- 
tivia  the  next  morning,  and  find  out. 

I  had  not  long  to  wait.  He  arrived  on  the  minute, 
bobbed  to  Mawkum,  drew  a  chair  to  my  desk  and 
squared,  or  rather  rounded,  his  body  in  front  of  me. 

"  I  will  now  tell  you  what  I  omitted  to  say  yester- 
day," he  began.  "  When  an  order  comes  for  this 
lighthouse — and  it  will  arrive  by  the  next  steamer — 
it  will  not  be  signed  by  Senor  Garlicho,  but  by  me. 
I  have  reasons  for  this  which  I  cannot  explain,  and 
which  are  not  necessary  for  you  to  know.  The  iron- 
work— all  you  will  have  to  furnish — will  also  be 
shipped  in  my  name.  With  the  order  will  be  sent  a 
letter  introducing  my  bankers,  who  will  call  upon 
you  at  your  convenience,  and  who  will  pay  the 
amounts  in  the  way  you  desire — one-third  on  the 
signing  of  the  contract  (one  of  the  firm  will  act  as 
my  agent),  one-third  on  erection  and  inspection  of 
the  ironwork  properly  put  together  in  the  yard,  and 
the  balance  on  delivery  to  them  of  the  bills  of  lading. 
Is  that  quite  satisfactory  ?  " 

I  bowed  my  head  in  answer. 

"  And  have  you  signed  your  estimate  showing  what 
you  consider  to  be  a  fair  price  for  both  the  lighthouse 
itself  and  for  the  cost  of  its  erection  on  the  Lobo 
Reef?" 

"  Yes ;  there  it  is,"  and  I  pointed  to  the  document 

88 


A    COAT    OF   BED   LEAD 

lying  on  my  desk.  "And  now  one  word,  please. 
When  did  you  last  see  Mr.  Lawton  ?  He's  our  agent, 
you  know,  and  you  must  have  met  him  in  connection 
with  this  matter.  When  Senor  Garlicho  arrived  he 
brought  us  a  letter  from  him." 

Onativia's  lips  curled  slightly  as  he  recognized  the 
hidden  meaning  of  the  inquiry,  but  his  expression 
never  changed. 

"  I  have  never  seen  him.  If  I  had  I  should  not 
have  wasted  my  time  in  getting  a  letter  from  him 
or  from  anybody  else.  As  to  Senor  Garlicho,  his 
time  has  expired;  he  has  not  asked  for  its  renewal, 
and  so  far  as  this  deal  is  concerned  he  does  not  count. 
I  am  here,  as  I  told  you,  to  keep  the  affair  alive.  I 
would  have  come  sooner,  but  I  have  been  away  from 
the  city  of  San  Juan  for  months.  Most  of  us  who 
have  opinions  of  our  own  have  been  away  from  San 
Juan — some  for  years.  San  Juan  has  not  been  a 
healthy  place  for  men  who  believe  in  Paramba." 

"  And  do  you  ?  " 

"  Absolutely.    So  do  thousands  of  our  citizens." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  agree  with  Sefior  Garlicho, 
then.  He  thought  your  former  president,  Paramba, 
a  tyrant.  As  for  President  Alvarez,  he  looked  upon 
him  as  the  saviour  of  his  country." 

The  lips  had  full  play  now,  the  smile  of  contempt 
wrinkling  up  to  his  eyelids. 

89 


A  COAT  OF  BED  LEAD 

"  Saviour  of  his  country !  Saviour  of  his  pocket ! 
Pardon  me;  I  am  not  here  to  discuss  the  politics  of 
our  people.  Is  this  your  estimate  %  "  And  he  reached 
over  and  picked  it  from  my  desk.  "  Ah,  yes :  forty 
thousand  dollars  for  the  ironwork ;  one  hundred  and 
twenty  thousand  for  the  erection  on  the  Lobo  Reef; 
one  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  in  all.  Thank  you." 
Here  he  tucked  the  paper  in  his  pocket  and  rose  from 
his  seat.  "  You  will  hear  from  me  in  a  month,  per- 
haps earlier.     Good-day."     And  he  waddled  out. 

The  return  of  the  Tampico  six  weeks  later  brought 
another  South  American  consignment.  This  was  a 
roll  of  plans  concealed  in  a  tin  case — the  identical 
package  which  Mawkum  had  handed  the  "  Bunch 
of  Dried  Garlic"  months  before,  together  with  a 
document  stamped,  restamped  and  stamped  again, 
containing  an  order  in  due  form,  signed  "  Carlos 
Onativia,"  for  a  lighthouse  to  be  erected  on  the 
■  Garra  de  Lobo  " — this  last  was  in  red  ink — with 
shipping  directions,  etc.,  etc. 

With  it  came  the  clerk  of  the  bankers  (he  had  the 
case  under  his  arm),  a  reputable  concern  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  my  office,  who  signed  the  contract 
and  paid  the  first  instalment. 

Then  followed  the  erection  of  the  ironwork  in  the 
Brooklyn  yard;  its  inspection  by  the  engineer  ap*- 

90 


A  COAT  OF  EED  LEAD 

pointed  by  the  bankers ;  its  dismemberment  and  final 
coat  of  red  lead — each  tie-rod  and  beam  red  as  sticks 
of  sealing-wax — its  delivery,  properly  bundled  and 
packed,  aboard  a  sailing  vessel  bound  for  San  Juan, 
and  the  payment  of  the  last  instalment. 

This  closed  the  transaction,   so  far  as  we  were, 
concerned. 

A  year  passed — two  of  them,  in  fact — during 
which  time  no  news  of  any  kind  reached  us  of  the 
lighthouse.  Mawkum  kept  the  duplicate  blue-print  of 
the  elevation  tacked  on  the  wall  over  his  desk  to  show 
our  clients  the  wide  range  of  our  business,  and  I  would 
now  and  then  try  to  translate  the  newspapers  which 
Lawton  sent  by  every  mail.  These  would  generally 
refer  to  the  dissatisfaction  felt  by  many  of  the  Moc- 
cadorians  over  the  present  government,  one  editorial, 
as  near  as  I  could  make  out,  going  so  far  as  to  hint 
that  a  secret  movement  was  on  foot  to  oust  the 
"  Usurper  "  Alvarez  and  restore  the  old  government 
under  Paramba.  "No  reference  was  ever  made  to  the 
lighthouse.  "We  knew,  of  course,  that  it  had  arrived, 
for  the  freight  had  been  paid :  this  we  learned  from 
the  brokers  who  shipped  it;  but  whether  it  was  still 
in  storage  at  San  Juan  or  was  flashing  red  and  white 
— a  credit  to  Onativia's  energy  and  a  godsend  to  if 
coming  shipping — was  still  a  mystery. 

91 


A  COAT  OF  KED  LEAD 

Mawkum  would  often  laugh  whenever  Garlicho'sf 
or  Onativia's  name  was  mentioned,  and  once  in  a 
while  we  would  discuss  the  difficulties  they  must  have 
encountered  in  the  erection  of  the  structure  in  the 
open  sea.  One  part  of  the  transaction  we  could  never 
understand,  and  that  was  why  Garlicho  had  allowed 
the  matter  to  lapse  if  the  lighthouse  was  needed  so 
badly,  and  what  were  his  reasons  for  sending  Ona- 
tivia  to  renew  the  negotiations  instead  of  coming 
himself. 

All  doubts  on  this  and  every  other  point  were  set 
at  rest  one  fine  morning  by  the  arrival  of  a  sunburned 
gentleman  with  gray  side-whiskers,  a  man  I  had  not 
seen  for  years. 

"  Why,  Lawton !  "  I  cried,  grasping  his  hand. 
"  This  is  a  surprise.  Came  by  the  Tampico,  did  you  ? 
Oh,  but  I  am  glad  to  see  you !  Here,  draw  up  a  chair. 
But  stop — not  a  word  until  I  ask  you  some  questions 
about  that  lighthouse." 

The  genial  Scotchman  broke  out  into  a  loud 
laugh. 

"  Don't  laugh!  Listen!  "  I  said  to  him.  "  Tell 
me,  why  didn't  Garlicho  go  on  with  the  work,  and 
what  do  you  know  about  Onativia  ?  " 

Lawton  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  closed  one  eye 
in  merriment. 

"  Garlicho  did  not  go  on  with  the  work,  my  dear 

92 


A  COAT  OF  EED  LEAD 

friend;  because  he  was  breaking  stone  in  the  street*, 
of  San  Juan  with  a  ball  and  chain  around  his  ankle, 
When  Paramba  came  back  to  power  he  was  tried  for 
high  treason  and  condemned  to  be  shot.  He  saved 
his  neck  by  turning  over  the  lighthouse  papers  to 
Onativia.  As  to  Carlos  Onativia,  he  is  a  product  of 
the  soil.  Started  life  as  a  coolie  boss  in  a  copper 
mine,  became  manager  and  owner,  built  the  bridge 
over  the  Quitos  Kiver  and  the  railroad  up  the 
Andes;  is  the  brightest  man  in  Moccador  and  the 
brains  of  the  Paramba  Government.  One  part  of  his 
duty  is  to  keep  the  people  satisfied,  and  he  does  it 
every  single  time ;  another  is  to  divide  with  Paramba 
every  dollar  he  makes." 

"  But  the  lighthouse !  "  I  interrupted.  "  Is  it  up  ? 
You  must  have  passed  it  on  your  way  out  of  the 
harbor." 

"  Up  ?  Yes,  and  lighted  every  night — up  in  the 
public  garden  in  San  Juan  among  the  palms  and 
bananas.  The  people  eat  ice-cream  on  the  first  plat- 
form and  the  band  plays  Sundays  in  the  balcony 
under  the  boat  davits.  The  people  are  wild  about  it — 
especially  the  women.  It  was  the  last  coat  of  red 
lead  that  did  it." 

And  again  the  office  rang  with  Lawton's  laugh. 


93 


MISS  MURDOCK -"SPECIAL" 


MISS  MURDOCK -"SPECIAL" 

A  row  of  gas  jets  hooded  by  green  paper  shade? 
lighting  a  long  table  at  which  sit  half  a  dozen  men  in 
their  shirt  sleeves  writing  like  mad ;  against  the  wall 
other  men, — one  drawing  Easter  lilies,  another  block- 
ing in  the  background  around  a  photograph,  a  third 
pasting  clippings  on  sheets  of  brown  paper.  Every 
few  minutes  a  bare-headed  boy  in  a  dirty  apron,  with 
smudged  face  and  ink-stained  fingers,  bounds  into 
the  stifling,  smoke-laden  room,  skirts  the  long  table, 
dives  through  a  door  labelled  "  City  Editor,"  re- 
mains an  instant  and  bounds  out  again,  his  hands 
filled  with  long  streamers  of  proof. 

In  the  opening  and  shutting  of  the  swinging  door 
a  round-bodied,  round-headed  man  in  his  shirt 
'sleeves  comes  into  view.  Covering  his  forehead, 
shielding  his  eyes  from  the  glare  of  the  overhead 
gas  jet,  is  a  half -moon  of  green  leather  held  in  place 
by  strings  tied  behind  his  ears.  The  line  of  shadow 
caused  by  this  shade  makes  a  blank  space  about  his 
eyes  and  brings  into  relief  his  pale,  flabby  cheeks, 
hard,  straight  mouth,  and  coarse  chin.    Only  when  he 

97 


MISS   MUKDOCK,— "  SPECIAL  " 

lifts  his  head  to  give  some  order,  or  holds  the  receiver 
of  the  telephone  to  his  ear,  can  his  eyes  be  exactly 
located.  Then  they  shine  like  a  cat's  in  a  cellar, — 
gray,  white,  gray  again,  with  a  glint  of  metallic- 
green, — always  the  same  distance  apart,  never  waver- 
ing, never  blinking.  Overstrung,  overworked,  nerv- 
ous men,  working  at  high  pressure,  spurred  by  the 
merciless  lash  of  passing  minutes,  have  these  eyes. 
So  do  cornered  beasts  fighting  for  air  and  space. 
Eleven-thirty  had  just  been  tolled  by  the  neighboring 
clock;  deliverance  would  come  when  the  last  form 
of  the  morning  edition  was  made  up.  Until  then 
safety  could  only  be  found  in  constant  attack. 

Outside  the  city  editor's  office,  sprawled  over  a 
pile  of  mail  sacks,  between  the  long  table  and  the 
swinging  door,  lay  Joe  Quinn,  man-of -all-work, — boy, 
in  fact,  for  he  was  but  nineteen,  big  for  his  age,  with 
arms  and  legs  like  cordwood  and  a  back  straight  and 
hard  as  a  plank.  Joe's  duty  was  to  keep  his  eyes 
peeled,  his  ears  open,  and  his  legs  in  working  order. 
If  a  reporter  wanted  a  fresh  pad,  a  cup  of  water,  or  a 
file  of  papers,  Joe  brought  them;  sometimes  he 
foraged  for  sandwiches  and  beer, — down  four  pair 
of  stairs,  across  the  street  into  a  cellar  and  up  again ; 
sometimes  he  carried  messages;  oftener  he  made  an 
elevator  of  himself,  running  between  the  presses  in 
the  basement  and  the  desk  behind  the  swinging  door. 

98 


MISS   MUUDOCK,— "  SPECIAL  " 

Fifty  trips  in  a  single  night  had  not  been  an  unusual 
tally. 

To  the  inmates  of  the  room  the  boy  was  known  as 
"  Joe  "  or  "  Quinn  "  or  "  Sonny."  To  the  man  with 
the  half -moon  shade  over  his  eyes  he  was  "  Say  "  or 
'  That  Damned  Kid."  High-strung,  high-pressure 
editors  omit  the  unnecessary,  condensation  being  part 
of  their  creed. 

Up  in  the  Franconia  Xotch,  in  a  little  hollow  under 
White  Face  and  below  Bog  Eddy,  Joe  had  been 
known  as  "  Jonathan's  boy,"  Jonathan  being  the 
name  his  father  went  by,  the  last  half  never  being 
used, — there  being  but  one  "  Jonathan  " — the  one 
whom  everybody  loved. 

The  cabin  was  still  standing,  where  Joe  was  born, 
- — a  slant  of  logs  with  a  stone  chimney  and  some  out- 
buildings; and  his  old  father  was  still  alive,  and  so 
was  his  mother  and  his  little  "  Sis."  Summer  morn- 
ings the  smoke  would  curl  straight  up  from  the  rude 
stone  chimney,  catch  a  current  of  air  from  the  valley, 
and  stretch  its  blue  arms  toward  the  tall  hemlocks 
,  covering  the  slope  of  the  mountain.  "Winter  morn- 
ings it  lay  flat,  buffeted  by  the  winds,  hiding  itself 
later  on  among  the  trees.  Joe  knew  these  hemlocks, 
— loved  them, — had  hugged  them  many  a  time,  laying 
his  plump,  ruddy  cheek  against  the  patches  of  cool 
moss  velveting  their  sides.     "  Xothin'  like  trees,"  his 

99 


MISS   MUKDOCK ,— "  SPECIAL  " 

6r0f  father  had  told  him,—"  real  human  when  ye 
know  'em." 

To-night,  as  he  lay  stretched  out  on  the  mail  sacks, 
his  ears  unlatched,  listening  for  the  sound  of  the- 
night  city  editor's  bell,  or  his  gruff  "  Say,  you !  "  his 
mind  kept  reverting  to  their  bigness  and  wide,  all- 
embracing,  protecting  arms.  A  letter  from  Jonathan 
received  that  morning,  and  still  tucked  away  in  his- 
inside  pocket,  had  revived  these  memories. 

"  They've  started  to  cut  roads,  son,"  it  read.  "  I 
was  out  gummin'  yesterday  and  got  up  under  White 
Face.  Won't  be  nothing  left  if  they  keep  on.  Cy 
Hawkins  sold  his  timber  land  to  them  last  winter 
and  they've  histed  up  a  biler  on  wheels  and  a  succular 
saw,  and  hev  cleared  off  pnrty  nigh  every  tree  clean 
from  the  big  windslash  down  to  the  East  Branch.  It 
ain't  going  into  building  stuff;  they're  sending  it- 
down  to  Plymouth  to  a  pulp  mill  and  grinding  it  up 
to  print  newspapers  on,  so  the  head  man  told  me.. 
Guess  you  know  all  about  it,  but  it  was  news  to  me. 
I  told  him  it  was  a  gol-darn-shame  to  serve  a  tree  so, 
being  as  how  trees  had  feelings  same  as  men,  but  he 
laughed  and  said  it  warn't  none  of  my  bizness,  and  I 
guess  it  ain't.  Beats  all  what  some  folks  will  do  for 
money." 

Joe  thought  so  too, — had  been  thinking  so  ever 
since  he  broke  the  seal  of  the  letter  that  the  post- 
100 


MISS    MUKDOCK — "  SPECIAL  'I 

master  at  Woodstock  had  directed  for  his  father. 
"  Dad's  right ;  trees  have  feelings/'  he  kept  repeat- 
ing to  himself.  And,  as  to  being  human,  he  could 
recall  a  dozen  that  he  had  talked  to  and  that  had 
talked  back  to  him  ever  since  he  could  remember. 
His  father  had  taught  him  their  language  on  the  long 
days  when  he  had  trailed  behind  carrying  the  gum 
bag  or  had  hidden  in  the  bushes  while  the  old  man 
wormed  himself  along,  his  rifle  in  the  hollow  of  his 
arm,  or  when  the  two  lay  stretched  out  before  their 
camp  fire. 

"  Dogs  and  trees,  my  son,  will  never  go  back  on  ye 
like  some  folks  I've  hearn  tell  of.  Allers  find  'em 
the  same.  See  that  yaller  birch  over  thar? — Well, 
I've  knowed  that  birch  over  forty-two  year  and  he 
ain't  altered  a  mite,  'cept  his  clothes  ain't  as  decent 
as  they  was,  and  his  shoes  is  give  out  'round  the  roots. 
You  kin  see  whar  the  bark's  busted  'long  'round  his 
toes, — but  his  heart's  all  right  and  he's  alive  and 
peart,  too.  You'll  find  him  fust  tree  out  in  the  spring, 
— sometimes  'fore  the  sugar  sap's  done  runnin'. 
Purty  soon,  if  you  watch  him  same's  me,  ye'll  see 
him  begin  to  shake  all  over, — kind  o'  shivery  with 
some  inside  fun ;  then  comes  the  buds  and,  fust  thing 
ye  know,  he  gives  a  little  see-saw  or  two  in  the  warm 
air  and  out  busts  the  leaves,  and  he  a  laughin'  fit  to 
kill.     Maybe  the  birds  ain't  glad,  and  maybe  them 

101 


JIISS   MUKDOCK,— "  SPECIAL  " 

squirrels  that's  been  snowed  up  all  winter  with  their 
noses  out  o'  that  crotch,  ain't  jes'  holdin'  their  sides, 
and  maybe,  too,  them  little  sunbeams  don't  like  to 
sneak  in  and  go  to  sleep  on  the  bark  all  silvery  and 
shinin'  like  the  ribbons  on  Sis's  hat !  They're  human 
them  trees  is,  I  tell  ye,  son, — real  human ! 

"  And  ye  want  to  treat  'em  with  some  perliteness, 
too;  they're  older'n  anything  'round  here  'cept  the 
rocks ;  and  they've  been  holdin'  up  the  dignity  of  this 
valley,  too, — kind  o'  'sponsible  for  things.  That's 
another  thing  ye  mustn't  forgit.  The  fust  folks  that 
come  travellin'  through  this  notch — 'bout  time  the 
In j  ins  quit, — took  notice  on  'em,  I  tell  ye.  That's 
what  they  come  for.  Bald  Top  and  White  Face  was 
all  right,  but  it  was  the  trees  that  knocked  'em  silly. 
That's  what  you  kin  read  in  the  book  school-teacher 
has,  and  that's  true.  And  see  how  they  treat  their 
brothers  that  git  toppled  over, — by  a  windslash,  may- 
be, or  lightnin'  or  a  landslide,  or  some  such  cussed 
thing,  givin'  'em  a  shoulder  to  lean  on  same  as  you 
would  help  a  cripple.  When  they're  clean  down  and 
done  for  it  ain't  more'n  a  year  or  two  'fore  they  got 
'em  kivered  all  over  with  leaves,  and  then  they  git 
tergether  and  hev  a  quiltin'  party  and  purty  soon 
they're  all  over  blankets  o'  green  moss,  and  the  others 
jes'  stand  'round  solemn  and  straight  like's  if  they 
was  mountin'  guard  over  their  graves. 

102 


MISS    MURDOCK  — "  SPECIAL  " 

"  It's  wicked  to  kill  most  anything  'less  ye  got 
some  use — and  a  good  one,  too, — for  the  meat,  but 
it's  a  durned  sight  meaner  to  cut  down  a  tree  that 
took  so  long  to  grow  and  that's  been  so  decent  all 
its  life,  'less  ye  can't  do  without  the  stuff  ye  git 
out'n  it," 

Joe  had  listened  and  had  drunk  it  all  in,  and  his 
love  for  the  tall  giants  away  back  in  the  deep  wilder- 
ness had  never  left  him.  It  was  these  dear  old 
friends  more  than  anything  else  that  had  kept  him  at 
home,  under  plea  of  helping  his  father,  months  after 
he  knew  he  ought  to  be  up  and  doing  if  he  would  ever 
be  of  any  use  to  the  old  man  in  his  later  years. 

It  was  Plymouth  first,  as  stable  boy,  and  then 
down  to  Nashua  and  Boston  as  teamster  and  freight 
handler,  and  then,  by  what  he  considered  at  the  time 
a  lucky  chance — (Katie  Murdoch,  from  his  own 
town,  and  now  a  reporter  in  the  same  newspaper 
office  with  himself,  had  helped),  man  of  all  work  in 
ihis  whirl  where  he  felt  like  a  fly  clinging  to  a  driv- 
ing wheel. 

Stretching  out  his  stout  saw-log  legs  and  settling 
his  big  shoulders  into  the  soft  cushions  made  by  the 
sacks,  his  mind  went  back  to  the  old  sawmill, — 
Baker's  Mill, — and  the  dam  backed  up  alongside  the 
1  East  Branch.  An  old  kingfisher  used  to  sit  on  a 
limb  over  the  still  water  and  watch  for  minnows, — a 

103 


MISS    MUKDOCK,— "  SPECIAL  " 

blue  and  white  fellow  with  a  sharp  beak.  He  had 
frightened  him  away  many  a  time.  And  there  was 
a  hole  where  two  big  trout  lived.  He  remembered 
the  willows,  too,  and  the  bunch  of  logs  piled  as  high 
as  the  mill.  These  would  be  rolled  down  and  cant- 
hooked  under  its  saw  when  the  spring  opened,  but 
Baker  never  ground  any  one  of  them  up  into  wood 
pulp.  It  went  into  clapboards  to  keep  out  the  cold, 
and  shingles  to  keep  off  the  rain,  and  the  "  waste  " 
went  under  the  kettles  of  the  neighbors,  the  light  of 
the  jolly  flames  dancing  round  the  room.  He  had 
carried  many  a  bundle  home  himself  that  the  old 
man  had  sent  to  Jonathan.  Most  everybody  sent 
Jonathan  something,  especially  if  they  thought  he 
needed  it. 

Then  his  mind  reverted  to  his  own  share  in  the 
whirl  about  him.  It  wasn't  a  job  he  liked,  but  there 
wasn't  anything  else  offering,  and  then  Katie  might 
want  somebody  to  look  after  her,  and  so  it  was  just 
as  well  he  had  the  job.  He  and  Katie  had  been 
schoolmates  together  not  so  long  ago,  in  the  wooden 
schoolhouse  near  the  crossroads.  She  had  gone  to 
college,  and  had  come  home  with  a  diploma.  She 
was  two  or  three  years  older  than  he  was,  but  that 
didn't  make  any  difference  to  a  boy  and  girl  from 
the  same  village  when  they  had  grown  up  alongside 
of  each  other.    He  wondered  how  long  it  was  to  July. 

104 


MISS    MUPJ30CK  — "  SPECIAL  " 

when  he  was  promised  a  week,— and  so  was  Katie. 
He  knew  just  what  they'd  do ;  he  could  get  two  passes 
to  Plymouth, — his  old  friend  the  freight  boss  had 
promised  him  that, — then  about  daylight,  the  time 
the  train  arrived,  he'd  find  Marvin,  who  drove  the 
stage  up  the  valley  and  past  his  old  home,  and  help 
him  curry  his  team  and  hitch  up,  and  Marvin  would 
give  them  a  ride  free.  He  could  feel  the  fresh  air 
on  his  cheeks  as  he  rattled  out  of  the  village,  across 
the  railroad  track  and  out  into  the  open.  Tim 
Shekles,  the  blacksmith,  would  be  at  work,  and  old 
Mother  Crawport  would  be  digging  in  her  garden, 
early  as  it  was ;  and  out  in  the  fields  the  crows  would 
be  hunting  corn ;  and  pretty  soon  down  would  go  the 
wheels  into  the  soft,  clean  gravel  of  the  brook  that 
crossed  the  turnpike  and  out  again  on  the  other  side 
dripping  puddles  in  the  dirt ;  and  soon  the  big  trees 
would  begin,  and  keep  on  and  on  and  on, — away 
up  to  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  the  morning  sun 
silvering  the  mists  sweeping  up  their  sides, — 
and 

"  Say !  you !     Wake  up !     He's  been  hollering  at 
you  for  five  minutes.     Git !  " 

Joe  sat  up  and  rubbed  his  eyes.     The  fresh  air  of 
the  morning  had  vanished. 

"  Yes,  sir."     He  was  on  his  feet  now,  alert  as  a 
terrier  that  had  sniffed  a  rat. 

105 


MISS    MUKDOCK  — "  SPECIAL  » 

"  Yes,  sir,  eh !  How  many  times  do  you  want  me 
to  call  you?  Go  and  find  Miss  Murdock,  and  send 
her  here  on  the  run.  Tell  her  to  get  her  hat  and 
cloak  and  show  up  in  two  minutes.  I've  got  an 
assignment  for  her  on  the  East  Side, — just  come  over 
the  'phone.  Hurry  now!  That  damned  kid  ought 
to  be " 

But  Joe  was  already  out  of  the  room  and  down 
two  pair  of  stairs.  Before  the  minutes  were  up  he 
was  back  again,  Katie  Murdock  with  him.  She  was 
sliding  her  arm  into  the  sleeve  of  her  jacket  as  she 
entered. 

"  Forty-third  and  First  Avenue,  Miss  Murdock," 
said  the  night  city  editor,  lifting  his  head  so  that  the 
cat  eyes  had  full  play.  "  Girl  overboard  from  one  of 
the  ferry  boats, — lives  at  117. — Drowned,  they  say, — 
some  fellow  mixed  up  in  it.  Take  your  snapshot 
along  and  get  everything.  Find  the  mother  if  she's 
got  one  and " 

But  the  girl  had  gone.  She  knew  the  value  of  time, 
- — especially  at  that  hour,  even  if  she  had  been  but 
a  week  in  her  new  department  of  "  Special."  Her 
chief  knew  it,  too,  or  he  wouldn't  have  sent  her 
at  that  hour.  There  was  time — plenty  of  time  if 
everything  went  right, — thirty  minutes,  perhaps 
an  hour, — to  spare,  but  they  were  not  hers  to 
waste. 

106 


MISS    MUKDOCK,— "  SPECIAL  '? 

"  Wait  for  me,  Joe,"  she  said,  as  she  hurried  past 
him.  "  We'll  go  up  town  together,  soon  as  the  presses 
start." 

Joe  threw  himself  again  on  the  pile  of  sacks  and 
kept  his  ears  open  for  orders.  It  was  a  bad  m°-ht 
for  Katie  to  go  out.  She  was  plucky  and  could  hold 
her  own, — had  done  so  a  dozen  times, — once  in  a 
street  car  when  some  fellow  tried  to  be  familiar, — 
but  he  didn't  like  her  to  go,  all  the  same.  Xobody 
who  looked  into  her  face  and  then  down  into  her 
blue  eyes  would  ever  make  any  mistake,  but  then  some 
men  mightn't  take  the  trouble  to  look.  He'd  wait 
for  her,  no  matter  how  late  it  might  be.  When  she 
came  in  she  would  be  out  of  breath,  and  perhaps 
hungry, — then  he'd  take  her  over  to  Cobb's  for  a  cup 
of  coffee. 

During  the  interim  Joe's  legs  had  been  kept  busy. 
Xot  only  had  he  rushed  downstairs  and  up  again  half 
a  dozen  times,  springing  to  the  night  city  editor's 
curse,  or  pound,  or  shout,  whichever  had  come  handi- 
est, but  he  had  also  been  twice  to  the  corner  for  frank- 
furters for  reporters  who  hadn't  had  a  crumb  to  eat 
for  hours.  He  was  unwrapping  the  second  one  when 
Katie  burst  in. 

Her  hat  and  coat  were  dripping  wet  and  her  hair 
hung  in  disorder  about  her  pale  face.  Her  notes 
were  nearly  completed ;  she  had  worked  them  out  on 

107 


MISS   MUKDOCK,— "  SPECIAL  " 

the  elevated  on  her  way  downtown.  Joe  absorbed  her 
with  a  look,  and  slid  to  her  side.  Something  in  her 
face  told  him  of  her  errand ;  something  of  the  suffer- 
ing, and  perhaps  horror, — and  he  wanted  to  get  close 
to  her.  The  girl  had  reached  the  editor's  desk  now, 
and  was  waiting  until  he  had  finished  the  paragraph 
his  pen  was  inditing. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  laying  down  his  pen, — "  What 
have  you  got  %  "  He  was  running  his  cat  eyes  over 
the  girl's  notes  as  he  spoke, — taking  in  at  a  glance 
the  "  meat  "  of  her  report.  Then  he  added, — "  Get 
any  snaps  ? " 

"  No,  sir,  I " 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  must  have  'em  %  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  couldn't  do  it.  The  mother  was  half 
crazy  and  the  two  little  children  would  have  broken 
your  heart.  She  was  the  only  one  who  could  earn 
anything " 

"  And  you  got  into  the  house  and  had  the  whole 
bunch  right  in  your  fist  and  never  snapped  a  shutter ! 
See  here,  Miss  Murdock,  I  ain't  running  a  Bible  class 
and  you're  not  working  in  the  slums, — you  can  keep 
that  gush  for  some  other  place.  You  had  your 
camera  and  flash, — I  saw  you  go  out  with  them.  I 
wanted  everything:  corpse  of  girl,  the  mother,  chil- 
dren; where  she  was  hauled  out, — who  hauled  her 
out, — her  lover, — she  went  overboard  for  some  fel- 

108 


MISS    MUKDOCK  — "  SPECIAL  " 

low,   you   remember, — I  told  you   all   that.      Well, 
you're  the  limit !  " 

Joe  had  moved  up  closer,  now.  He  was  formulat- 
ing in  his  mind  what  would  happen  to  Katie  if  he 
caught  the  night  city  editor  under  his  chin  and 
slammed  his  head  against  the  wall.  He  knew  what 
would  happen  to  the  editor  and  to  himself,  but  it  was 
Katie's  fate  that  kept  his  hands  flat  to  his  sides. 

"  I  would  rather  throw  up  my  position  than  have 
done  it,  sir/7  Katie  pleaded.  "  There  are  some  things 
never  ought  to  be  printed.     This  drowned  girl " 

The  night  city  editor  sprang  from  his  chair, 
brushed  the  pile  of  notes  aside  with  his  hand,  and 
shouted : 

"  Say,  you !  Find  that  damned  boy,  somebody, 
if  he  isn't  asleep !  " 

Joe,  who  was  not  ten  feet  away,  stepped  up  and 
faced  him, — stepped  so  quickly  that  the  man  backed 
away  as  if  for  more  room. 

"  Get  a  move  on  and  send  Miss  Parker  here.  Hunt 
for  her, — if  she  isn't  downstairs  she  may  be  at  Cobb's 
getting  something  to  eat.  Quick,  now !  "  Then  he 
turned  to  Katie : — 

"You  better  go  home,  Miss  Murdock.  You're 
tired,  maybe :  anyhow,  you're  way  off.  Miss  Parker'll 
get  what  we  want, — she  isn't  so  thin-skinned.  Here, 
take  that  stuff  with  you, — it's  no  use  to  me." 

109 


MISS   MUKDOCK,— "  SPECIAL  " 

The  girl  reached  across  the  desk,  gathered  up  the 
scattered  notes,  and  without  a  word  left  the  room. 
On  the  way  downstairs  she  met  Miss  Parker  coming 
up,  Joe  at  her  heels.  She  was  older  than  Katie, — 
and  harder ;  a  woman  of  thirty-five,  whose  experience 
had  ranged  from  nurse  in  a  reformatory  to  a  night 
reporter  on  a  "  Yellow."  The  two  women  passed 
each  other  without  even  a  nod.  Joe  turned  and  fol- 
lowed Katie  Murdock  downstairs  and  into  the  night 
air.  Miss  Parker  kept  on  her  way.  As  she  glided 
through  the  room  to  the  city  editor's  office,  she  had  the 
air  of  a  sleuth  tracking  a  criminal. 

Once  outside  in  the  night  air,  Joe  drew  Katie  from 
under  the  glare  of  the  street  lamp.  Her  eyes  were 
running  tears, — at  the  man's  cruelty  and  injustice. — ■ 
she  who  had  worked  to  any  hour  of  the  night  to  please 
him. 

Joe  was  hoiling. 

"  I'll  go  back  and  punch  him,  if  you'll  let  me.  I 
heard  it  all." 

"  No,  it'll  do  no  good, — both  of  us  would  get  into 
trouble,  then." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  chuck  my  job.  This  ain't  no 
place  for  any  decent  girl  nor  man.  Was  it  pretty  bad 
where  you  went,  Katie  ?  " 

"  Bad !  Oh,  Joe,  you  don't  know.  I  said,  last 
week,  when  I  forced  my  way  into  the  room  of  that 

110 


MISS    MUKDOCK  — "  SPECIAL  " 

poor  mother  whose  son  was  arrested,  that  I'd  never 
report  another  case  like  it.  But  you  ought  to  have 
seen  what  I  saw  to-night.  The  poor  girl  worked  in 
a  box  factory,  they  told  me,  and  this  man  hounded 
her,  and  in  despair  she  threw  herself  overboard.  The 
room  was  full  when  I  got  there, — policemen, — one  or 
two  other  reporters, — no  woman  but  me.  They  had 
brought  her  in  dripping  wet  and  I  found  her  on  the 
floor, — just  a  child,  Joe, — hardly  sixteen, — her  hair 
filled  with  dirt  from  the  water, — the  old  mother 
wringing  her  hands.  Oh,  it  was  pitiful!  I  could 
have  flashed  a  picture, — nobody  would  have  cared  nor 
stopped  me, — but  I  couldn't.  Don't  you  see  I 
couldn't,  Joe?  He  has  no  right  to  ask  me  to  do 
these  things, — nobody  has, — it's  awful.  It's  horri- 
ble! What  would  that  poor  mother  have  said  when 
she  saw  it  in  the  paper  ?  I'll  go  home  now.  Xo„ 
you  needn't  come, — they'll  want  you.  Go  back  up- 
stairs.    Good-night." 

Joe  watched  her  until  she  caught  an  uptown  car, 
and  then  turned  into  the  side  door  opening  on  the 
narrow  street.  A  truck  had  arrived  while  they  were 
talking,  and  the  men  were  unloading  some  great 
rolls  of  paper, — enormous  spools.  "  What  would  dad 
say  if  he  saw  what  his  trees  had  come  to  ? y:  Joe 
thought,  as  he  stood  for  a  moment  looking  them 
over, — his  mind  going  back  to  his   father's  letter, 

111 


MISS    MUKDOCK  — "  SPECIAL  " 

One  roll  of  wood  pulp  had  already  been  jacked  up 
and  was  now  feeding  the  mighty  press.  The  world 
would  be  devouring  it  in  the  morning;  the  drowned 
girl  would  have  her  place  in  its  columns, — so  would 
every  other  item  that  told  of  the  roar  and  crash,  the 
crime,  infamy,  and  cruelty  of  the  preceding  hours. 
Then  the  issues  would  be  thrown  away  to  make  room 
for  a  fresher  record; — some  to  stop  a  hole  in  a 
broken  window;  some  to  be  trampled  under  foot  of 
horse  and  man;  many  to  light  the  fires  the  city 
over. 

"  My  poor  trees ! "  sighed  Joe,  as  he  slowly 
mounted  the  steps  to  the  top  floor.  "  There  ain't  no 
common  sense  in  it,  I  know.  Got  to  make  sumpin' 
out  o'  the  timber  once  they're  cut  down,  but  it  gits 
me  hot  all  the  same  when  I  think  what  they've  come 
to.  Gol-darn-shame  to  serve  ye  so!  Trees  has  feel- 
in's,  same's  men, — that's  what  dad  says,  and  that's 
true !  " 

Miss  Parker  had  done  her  work.  Joe  saw  that 
when  he  opened  the  paper  the  next  morning:  saw  it 
at  a  glance,  and  with  a  big  lump  in  his  throat  and  a 
tightening  of  his  huge  fists.  Flaring  headlines 
marked  the  first  page;  under  them  was  a  picture  of 
the  girl  in  a  sailor  hat, — she  had  found  the  original 
on  the  mantel  and  had  slipped  it  in  her  pocket.  Then 

112 


MISS    MTJEDOCK  — "  SPECIAL  " 

followed  a  flash  photo  of  the  dead  girl  lying  on  the 
floor,— her  poor,  thin,  battered  and  bruised  body 
straight  out,  the  knees  and  feet  stretching  the  wet 
drapery,— nothing  had  been  left  out.  Most  of  the 
details  were  untrue,— the  story  of  the  lover  being  a 
pure  invention,  but  the  effect  was  all  right.  Then, 
again,  no  other  morning  journal  had  more  than  a 

few  lines. 

Everybody  congratulated  her.    "  Square  beat,"  one 
man  said,  at  which  her  gray,  cold  face  lightened  up. 
"  Glad  you  liked  it,"  she  answered  with  a  nod  of 
her  head,—"  I  generally  '  get  there/  " 

When  the  night  city  editor  arrived— the  city  editor 
was  ill  and  he  had  taken  his  place  for  the  day- 
he  reached  out  and  caught  her  hand.  Then  he  drew 
her  inside  the  office.  When  she  passed  Joe  again  on 
her  way  out,  her  smile  had  broadened. 

"  Got  her  pay  shoved  up,"  one  of  the  younger  men 
whispered  to  another. 

When  Katie  came  in  an  hour  later,  no  one  in  the 
room  but  Joe  caught  the  dark  lines  under  her  eyes 
and  the  reddened  lids,— as  if  she  had  passed  a  sleep- 
less night,— one  full  of  terror.  She  walked  straight 
to  where  the  boy  stood  at  work. 

"  I've  just  seen  that  poor  mother,  Joe.  I  saw  the 
paper  and  what  Miss  Parker  had  said  and  I  went 
straight  to  her.     I  did  not  want  her  to  think  I  had 

113 


MISS   MUKDOCK  — "  SPECIAL  " 

been  &o  cruel.  When  I  got  to  her  house  this  morn- 
ing there  was  a  patrol  wagon  at  the  door  and  all  the 
neighbors  outside.  A  woman  told  me  she  was  all 
right  until  somebody  showed  her  the  morning  paper 
with  the  picture  of  her  drowned  daughter;  then  she 
began  to  scream  and  went  stark  mad,  and  they  were 
getting  ready  to  take  her  to  Ward's  Island  when  I 
walked  in.     You've  seen  the  picture,  haven't  you  ?  " 

Joe  nodded.  He  had  seen  the  picture, — had  it  in 
his  hand.  He  dare  not  trust  himself  to  speak, — 
everybody  was  around  and  he  didn't  want  to  appear 
green  and  countrified.  Then  again,  he  didn't  want 
to  make  it  harder  for  Katie.  She  had  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it,  thank  God ! 

The  door  of  the  office  swung  open.  The  editor  this 
time  caught  sight  of  Katie,  called  her  by  name,  and, 
with  a  "  Like  to  see  you  about  a  little  matter,"' 
beckoned  her  inside  and  shut  the  door  upon  them 
both. 

A  moment  later  she  was  out  again,  a  blue  envelope 
in  her  hand. 

"  He's  got  me  discharged,  Joe.  Here's  a  note  from 
i,he  city  editor,"  she  said.  Her  voice  quivered  and 
(he  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"  Fired  you !  " 

"  Yes, — he  says  I'm  too  thin-skinned." 

Joe  stood  for  a  moment  with  the  front  page  of  the 

114 


MISS    MUKDOCK  — "  SPECIAL  " 

paper  still  in  his  hand.  Something  of  Jonathan  came 
into  his  face, — the  same  firm  lines  about  his  mouth 
that  his  father  had  when  he  crawled  under  the  floor 
timbers  of  the  mill  to  save  Baker's  girl,  pinned  down 
and  drowning,  the  night  of  the  freshet. 

Crushing  the  sheet  in  his  hand  Joe  walked  straight 
into  the  city  editor's  office,  a  swing  in  his  movement 
and  a  look  in  his  eye  that  roused  everybody  in  the 
room. 

"  You've  got  Katie  Murdock  fired,  she  says,"  he 
hissed  between  his  teeth.  "What  fur?"  He  was 
standing  over  the  night  city  editor  now,  his  eyes  blaz- 
ing, his  fists  tightly  closed. 

"  What  business  have  you  to  ask  ?  "  growled  the 
editor. 

"  Every  business !  "  There  was  something  in  the 
boy's  face  that  made  the  man  move  his  hand  toward  a 
paper  weight. 

"  She's  fired  because  she  wouldn't  do  your  dirty 
work.  Look  at  this !  " — he  had  straightened  out  the 
crumpled  sheet  now:  "Look  at  it!  That's  your 
work ! — ain't  a  dog  would  a-done  it,  let  alone  a  man. 
Do  you  know  what's  happened  ?  That  girl's  mother 
went  crazy  when  she  saw  that  picture!  You  sent 
that  catamount,  Miss  Parker,  to  do  it,  and  she  done 
it  fine,  and  filled  it  full  o'  lies  and  dirt !    Ye  didn't 

care  who  ye  hurt,  you " 

115 


MISS    MUKDOCK  — "  SPECIAL  " 

The  man  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Here ! — put  yourself  outside  that  door !  Get  oat 
or  I'll " 

"  Git  out,  will  I !— ME ! — I'll  git  out  when  you 
eat  yer  words, — and  you  will  eat  'em.     Down  they 


go- 


Joe  had  him  by  the  throat  now,  his  fingers  tight 
under  his  chin,  his  head  flattened  against  the  wooden 
partition.  In  his  powerful  grasp  the  man  was  as 
helpless  as  a  child. 

"  Eat  it, — swallow  it ! — more — more — all  of  it ! 
damn  ye !  " 

He  was  cramming  the  wad  between  the  editor's 
lips,  one  hand  forcing  open  his  teeth,  the  other  hold- 
ing his  head  firm  against  the  wall. 

Then  flinging  the  half  strangled  man  from  him  he 
turned,  and  facing  the  crowd  of  reporters  and  em- 
ployes— Miss  Parker  among  them, — shouted : — 

"  And  ye're  no  better, — none  o'  ye.  Ye  all  hunt 
dirt, — live  on  dirt  and  eat  dirt.  Ye're  like  a  lot  o' 
>  buzzards  stuck  up  on  a  fence  rail  waitin'  fur  an  old 
horse  to  die.  Ain't  one  o'  you  reporters  wouldn't 
been  glad  to  do  what  that  catamount  over  there  done 
last  night,  and  ain't  one  o'  ye  wouldn't  take  pay  fur 
it.  Katie  Murdock's  fired  ?  Yes, — two  of  us  is  fired, 
— me  and  her.  We'll  go  back  whar  we  come  from. 
We  mayn't  be  so  almighty  smart  as  some  o'  you  city 

116 


MISS    MUKDOCK,— "  SPECIAL  " 

folks  be,  but  we're  a  blamed  sight  decenter.  Up  in 
my  country  dead  girls  is  suinpin'  to  be  sorry  fur,  not 
sumpin'  to  make  money  out'er,  and  settin'  a  poor 
mother  crazy  is  worse'n  murder.  Git  out  o'  my  way 
thar,  or  I'll  hurt  some  o'  ye !    Come,  Katie  I '" 


117 


THE  BEGUILING  OF  PETER  GRIGGS 


THE  BEGUILING  OF  PETER  GRIGGS 

Peter  was  in  his  room  when  I  knocked — up  two 
flights  of  stairs  off  Washington  Square — Eighth 
Street  really — in  one  of  those  houses  with  a  past — of 
mahogany,  open  wood  fires,  old  Madeira  in  silver 
coasters  pushed  across  hand-polished  tables, — that 
kind  of  a  past. 

None  of  all  this  could  be  seen  in  its  present.  The 
marble  steps  outside  were  worn  down  like  the  teeth 
of  an  old  horse,  and  as  yellow ;  the  iron  railings  were 
bent  and  cankered  by  rust;  the  front  door  was  in 
blisters;  the  halls  bare,  steps  uncarpeted,  and  the 
spindling  mahogany  balusters  showed  here  and  there 
substitutes  of  pine. 

Nor  did  the  occupants  revive  any  of  its  old-time 
charm.  The  basement  held  a  grocery — a  kindling- 
wood,  ice  and  potato  sort  of  grocery;  the  parlor 
boasted  a  merchant  tailor — much  pressing  and  repair- 
ing, with  now  and  then  a  whole  suit ;  the  second  floor 
front  was  given  over  to  a  wig-maker  and  the  second 
story  back  to  a  manicure.  Here  the  tide  of  the  com- 
mercial and  the  commonplace  stopped — stopped  just 
*hort  of  the  third  floor  where  old  Peter  Griggs  lived. 

121 


THE  BEGUILING  OF  PETER  GRIGGS 

You  would  understand  why  if  you  knew  the  man. 

Just  as  this  particular  old  house  possessed  two 
distinct  personalities — one  of  the  past  and  the  other 
of  the  present — so  did  the  occupant  of  the  third  floor. 

Downtown  in  the  custom  house,  where  he  was  em- 
ployed (he  had  something  to  do  with  invoices),  he 
was  just  plain  Mr.  Griggs — a  short,  crisp,  "  Yes  and 
No  "  little  man — exact,  precise  and  absurdly  correct : 
never,  in  all  his  life,  had  he  made  a  mistake. 

Up  in  these  rooms  on  the  third  floor  he  was  dear 
old  Peter — or.  Pete — or  Griggsy — or  whatever  his 
many  friends  loved  best  to  call  him.  Up  here,  too, 
he  was  the  merriest  companion  possible;  giving  out 
as  much  as  he  absorbed,  and  always  with  his  heart 
turned  inside  out.  That  he  had  been  for  more  than 
thirty  years  fastened  to  a  high  stool  facing  his  desk 
bespoke  neither  political  influence  nor  the  backing 
of  rich  friends.  Nobody,  really,  had  ever  wanted  his 
place.  If  they  did  they  never  dared  ask  for  it — not 
above  their  breath.  They  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  ousting  the  old  clock  from  its  perch  in  the  rotunda, 
or  moving  one  of  the  great  columns  that  faced  the 
street.  So  he  just  stayed  on  ticking  away  at  his  post, 
quite  like  the  old  clock  itself,  and  getting  stiffer  and 
stirrer  in  the  line  of  his  duty — quite  like  the  columns 
— and  getting  more  and  more  covered  with  the  dust 
of  long  habit — quite  like  both  of  them. 

122 


THE  BEGUILING   OF  PETER  GEIGGS 

This  dust,  being  outside  dust,  and  never  sinking 
the  thousandth  part  of  an  inch  below  the  surface,  left 
its  mark  on  the  man  beneath  as  a  live  coal  fading  and 
whitening  leaves  its  covering  of  ashes  on  the  spark. 

These  two — the  ashes  and  the  spark — made  up  the 
sum  of  Peter's  individuality.  The  ash  part  was  what  i 
he  offered  to  the  world  of  routine — the  world  he  hated. 
The  spark  part — cheery,  warm,  enthusiastic,  full  of 
dreams,  of  imaginings,  with  an  absorbing  love  for  lit- 
tle bits  of  beauty,  such  as  old  Satsuma,  Cloisonne, 
quaint  miniatures  and  the  like — all  good,  and  yet 
within  reach  of  his  purse — this  part  he  gave  to  his 
friends. 

I  am  inside  his  room  now,  standing  behind  him 
taking  in  the  glow  of  the  fire  and  the  red  damask 
curtains  shielding  the  door  that  leads  to  his  bedroom ; 
my  eye  roving  over  the  bookcases  crammed  with 
books,  the  tables  littered  with  curios  and  the  mantel 
covered  with  miniatures  and  ivories.  I  invariably  do 
this  to  discover  his  newest  "  find  "  before  he  calls  my 
attention  to  it.  As  he  has  not  yet  moved  or  given  me 
any  other  sign  of  recognition  than  a  gruff  "  Draw  up 
a  chair,"  in  a  voice  that  does  not  sound  a  bit  like 
him — his  eyes  all  the  time  on  the  smouldering  fire, 
there  is  yet  a  chance  to  look  him  over  before  he  begins 
to  talk.  (We  shall  all  be  busy  enough  listening  when 
he  does  begin.) 

123 


THE  BEGUILING  OF  PETER  GRIGGS 

I  say  "  all,"  for  there  is  a  second  visitor  close  be- 
hind me,  and  the  sound  of  still  another  footstep  can 
already  be  heard  in  the  hall  below. 

It  is  the  back  of  Peter's  head  now  that  interests 
me,  and  the  droop  of  his  shoulders.  They  always 
remind  me  of  Leech's  sketch  of  Old  Scrooge  waiting 
for  Marly's  ghost,  wThenever  I  come  upon  him  thus 
unobserved.  To-night  he  not  only  wears  his  calico 
dressing-gown — an  unheard-of  garment  in  these  days 
— but  a  red  velvet  cap  pulled  over  his  scalp.  Ma^ 
bald  men  would  have  the  cap  black — but  then  most 
bald  men  have  not  Peter's  eye  for  color. 

It's  a  queer  head — this  head  of  Peter  Griggs.  Not 
at  all  like  any  other  head  I  know.  If  I  should  attempt 
to  describe  it,  I  should  merely  have  to  say  bluntly 
that  it  was  more  like  an  enlarged  hickory-nut  than 
any  other  object  I  can  think  of.  It  is  of  the  same 
texture,  too,  and  almost  as  devoid  of  hair.  Except 
on  his  temples,  and  close  down  where  his  collar  binds 
his  thin  neck,  there  is  really  very  little  hair  left ;  and 
this  is  so  near  the  color  of  the  shrivelled  skin  beneath 
that  I  never  know  where  one  begins  and  the  other 
ends. 

When  I  face  him — and  by  this  time  I  am  facing 
him — I  must  admit  that  the  hickory-nut  simile  still 
holds.  There  are  no  particular  features,  no  decided 
bumps,  no  decided  hollows;  the  nose  is  only  an  en- 

124 


THE  BEGUILING  OF  PETER  GRIGGS 

larged  ridge,  the  cheeks  and  eye-sockets  only  seams. 
But  the  eyes  count — yes,  the  eyes  count — count  so 
that  you  see  at  once  that  they  are  the  live  points  of 
the  live  coal  smouldering  beneath. 

Here  the  hickory-nut  as  a  simile  goes  all  to  pieces. 
These  eyes  are  the  flash  from  some  distant  lighthouse, 
''burning  dull  when  the  commonplace  of  life  passes  be- 
fore him,  and  bursting  into  effulgence  when  some- 
thing touches  his  heart  or  stirs  his  imagination. 
Downtown  in  the  Dismal  Tomb  even  the  lighthouse 
goes  to  smash.  Here  the  eyes  set  so  far  back  in  his 
head  that  they  look  for  all  the  world  like  two  wary 
foxes  peeping  out  of  a  hole,  losing  nothing  of  what  is 
going  on  outside — never  being  fooled,  never  being 
wheedled  or  coaxed  out  of  their  retreat.  "  Can't 
fool  Mr.  Griggs/'  some  broker  says,  as  he  tries  to 
get  his  papers  signed  out  of  his  turn.  Uptown  these 
same  foxes  are  running  around  loose  in  an  abandon- 
ment of  jollity,  frisking  here  and  there,  all  restraint 
cast  aside — trusting  everybody — and  glad  to.  That's 
why  I  couldn't  understand  his  tone  of  voice  when  I 
opened  his  door. 

"  Not  sick,  old  fellow  ?  "  I  cried.  He  had  not  yet 
lifted  his  head  or  vouchsafed  a  single  word  of  wel- 
come. 

"  Yes,  sick  at  heart.  My  old  carcass  is  all  right, 
but  inside — way  down  where  a  man  lives — I'm  sick 

125 


THE  BEGUILING  OF  PETER  GRIGGS 

unto  death.    Take  a  look  at  the  mantelpiece.    You  see 
my  best  miniature's  gone,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Not  the  Cosway  I  " 

"  Yes,  the  Cosway !  " 

"Stolen?" 

"  Worse  than  stolen !  Oh,  my  boy,  such  mean 
people  live  in  the  world!  I  couldn't  believe  it  pos- 
sible. I've  read  in  the  papers  something  like  it,  but 
that  I  should  have  been — oh,  I  can't  get  over  it !  It 
haunts  me  like  a  ghost.  It  isn't  the  value — it's  the 
way  it  was  done ;  and  I  was  so  helpless,  and  I  meant 
only  to  be  kind." 

The  other  men  had  arrived  now  and  the  three  of  us 
were  ranged  around  Peter  in  a  circle,  wondering  with 
wide-opened  eyes  at  his  tone  of  voice,  his  dismal  ex- 
pression, and  especially  at  the  air  of  dejection  which 
seemed  to  ooze  through  every  square  inch  of  his  calico 
dressing-gown. 

"  Sit  down,  all  of  you,"  he  continued,  "  and  listen. 
And  it's  all  your  fault.  If  only  one  of  you  had  come 
up  to  see  me !  I  waited  and  waited ;  I  knew  most  of 
you  would  be  off  somewhere  eating  your  Thanksgiv- 
ing turkey,  but  that  every  mother's  son  of  you  should 
have  forgotten  me — that's  what  I  won't  forgive  you , 
for." 

We,  with  one  accord,  began  to  make  excuses*  but 
he  waved  us  into  silence. 

126 


THE  BEGUILING  OE  PETER  GRIGGS 

"  After  a  while  I  got  so  lonely  I  couldn't  stand  it 
any  longer.  So  about  six  o'clock  I  started  out  to  dine 
alone  somewhere — some  place  where  I  had  no  asso- 
ciations with  any  one  of  you.  I  hadn't  gone  as  far 
as  Broadway  when  along  came  two  men  and  a  woman. 
You'd  have  said  i  two  gentlemen  and  a  lady  ' — I  say 
two  men  and  a  woman.  I  looked  at  them  and  they , 
looked  at  me.  I  saw  they  were  from  out  of  town,  and 
right  away  came  the  thought,  they  must  be  lonely,, 
too.  Everybody  is  lonesome  on  Thanksgiving  if  he's 
away  from  home,  or,  like  me,  has  no  place  to  go  to. 
The  Large  Man  stopped  and  nudged  the  Small  Man, 
and  the  Woman  turned  and  looked  at  me  earnestly, 
then  all  three  talked  together  for  a  minute,  then 
I  heard  the  Small  Man  say,  '  I'll  go  you  a  ten  on  it/ 
which  conveyed  no  meaning  to  me.  Then  all  three  of 
them  walked  back  to  where  I  stood  and  the  Large  Man 
asked  me  where  Eoscari's  restaurant  was. 

"  Well,  of  course,  that  was  in  the  next  street,  so  I 
volunteered  to  show  them  the  place.  On  the  way  over 
the  Small  Man  and  the  Woman  lagged  behind  and 
I  overheard  them  say  that  it  would  never  do — that  is, 
the  Woman  said  so ;  at  which  the  Small  Man  laughed 
and  said  they  couldn't  find  a  better.  All  this  time  the 
Large  Man  held  me  by  the  arm  in  a  friendly  sort  of 
way,  as  if  he  were  afraid  I  would  stub  my  toe  and  fall 
if  he  didn't  help  me  over  the  gutters;  telling  me  all 

127 


THE  BEGUILING  OF  PETEK  GEIGGS 

the  time  that  he  didn't  know  the  ropes  around  New 
York  and  how  much  obliged  he  was  to  me  for  taking 
all  this  trouble  to  show  him.  Pretty  soon  we  arrived 
at  Eoscari's.  I  never  dined  there — never  had  been 
inside  the  place.  Cheap  sort  of  a  restaurant — down 
two  steps  from  the  sidewalk,  but  they  asked  for 
Eoscari's,  and  that's  where  I  took  them. 

"  '  Here's  the  place,'  I  said,  and  I  lifted  my  hat  to 
the  Woman  and  turned  to  go  back. 

"  '  No,  don't  go,'  said  the  Large  Man,  still  holding 
on  to  my  arm.  '  You've  been  white  and  decent  to  us ; 
we're  all  stranded  here.  This  is  Thanksgiving — 
come  in  and  have  dinner  with  us.' 

"  Then  I  began  by  thanking  them  and  ended  by 
saying  I  couldn't.  Then  the  Small  Man  began  to 
urge  me,  saying  that  out  in  his  country,  near  the 
Rockies,  everybody  was  willing  to  sit  down  at  any- 
body's table  when  he  was  invited;  and  the  Large 
Man  kept  on  squeezing  my  arm  in  a  friendly  sort  of 
way,  so  I  finally  said  I  didn't  care  if  I  did,  and  in  we 
all  went.  When  we  got  inside  the  place  was  practi- 
cally empty — only  one  guest,  really — and  he  was  over 
by  the  wall  in  a  corner.  There  were  only  two  waiters 
— one  an  Irishman  who  said  his  name  was  Mike,  with 
a  very  red  head  and  an  enormous  mouth — a  queer 
kind  of  a  servant  for  that  kind  of  a  restaurant,  I 

128 


THE  BEGUILING  OF  PETER  GRIGGS 

tnought — and  the  other  a  young  Italian,  who  was 
probably  the  cook. 

"  '  You  order/  said  the  Large  Man.     *  You  know 
what's  good  in  New  York.' 

"  So  I  ordered. 

"  And  I  want  to  tell  you  that  the  dinner  was  a 
particularly  good  one — well  cooked  and  well  served. 
We  had  soup  and  fish  and  an  Italian  ragout,  maca- 
roni, peppers  and  two  bottles  of  red  wine.  Before 
the  soup  was  over  I  was  glad  I'd  come ;  glad,  not  only 
because  the  dinner  was  all  right,  but  because  the  peo- 
ple were  human  kind  of  people — no  foolishness  about 
them — no  pretension.  They  were  not  our  kind  of 
people,  of  course — couldn't  find  them  in  New  York 
if  you  looked  everywhere — not  born  and  brought  up 
here.  The  Woman  was  gentle  and  kindly,  saying 
very  little,  but  the  Large  Man  was  a  hearty,  breezy 
^ort  of  fellow — even  if  his  language  at  times  was 
rough  and  uncouth — at  least  I  thought  so.  Big  bones 
and  a  well-fed  body;  quick  in  his  movements,  yet 
slow  in  his  talk,  showing  force  and  determination  in 
everything  he  said.  The  Small  Man  was  as  tough 
physically  and  as  alert  mentally,  but  there  wasn't 
so  much  of  him.  He  talked,  however,  twice  as  fast  as 
the  Large  Man,  and  said  less. 

"  He  talked  of  the  city — how  smart  the  people 

129 


THE  BEGUILING  OF  PETER  GRIGGS 

were,  how  stuck  up  some  of  them,  thinking  they  knew 
it  all,  and  how,  if  they  but  thought  about  it,  they 
must  see  after  all  that  the  West  was  the  only  thing 
that  kept  the  country  alive.  That  kind  of  talk — not 
in  an  offensive  way — just  as  all  of  us  talk  when  we 
believe  in  our  section  of  the  country. 

"  All  this  time  the  solitary  guest  sat  against  the 
wall  listening.  Near  as  I  could  make  out  he  only  had 
one  dish  and  a  small  bottle  of  wine.  Presently  he 
made  a  remark — not  to  us — not  to  the  room — more 
as  if  to  himself. 

"  l  West  is  the  only  thing,  is  it  ?  And  every  man 
Jack  of  them  from  New  England  stock ! ' 

"  This,  too,  didn't  come  in  any  offensive  spirit — 
just  as  an  aside,  as  if  to  keep  himself  company,  being 
lonely,  of  course. 

"  But  the  Large  Man  caught  it  before  all  the  words 
were  out  of  his  mouth. 

"  e  Dead  right,  pard,'  he  said — I  only  quote  his 
words,  gentlemen.  (  My  father  came  from  Boston — 
left  there  in  '58.    Where're  you  from  ? ' 

"  e  Boston,'  answered  the  man  looking  at  him  over 
the  prongs  of  his  fork. 

"  '  That  so  ?  Well,  why  ain't  you  eatin'  your 
turkey  with  your  folks  ?     Got  any  ? ' 

"  c  Yes,  got  a  lot  of  them,  but  I  was  short  of  a 
ticket.' 

130 


THE  BEGUILIXG  OF  PETER  GKIGGS 

"  Here  the  Large  Man  got  up  and  went  over  to  the 
Man  from  Boston. 

"  '  Shake  for  Boston/  he  said,  holding  out  his  big 
J'uand.     '  And  now  bring  that  bottle  over  here  and 
chip  in  with  us.'    Then  he  opened  his  pocketbook  and 
took  out  a  square  slip  of  paper. 

"  '  Here,  tuck  that  in  your  clothes.'  Again  I  must 
remark,  gentlemen,  that  I  am  only  quoting  their 
language  so  that  you  can  get  a  better  idea  of  what 
sort  of  people  I  was  with.  <  That's  a  pass  to  your 
'burg.    I'm  going  South  and  I  won't  use  it.' 

"  There  were  five  of  us  at  the  table  now,  the  Bos- 
tonian  bringing  over  his  plate  without  a  word  except 
'  Thank  you,'  and  taking  his  share  of  the  different 
dishes. 

"  The  talk  now  became  very  interesting.  The 
Large  Man  told  stories  of  his  early  life  on  a  farm 
and  the  Bostonian  recited  verses,  and  recited  them 
very  well,  and  the  Woman  laughed  in  the  right  place, 
and  when  the  cigars  were  brought  and  the  coffee  and 
the  cognac,  I  was  sorry  it  was  all  over.  That,  when 
I  look  back  upon  it,  is  the  most  extraordinary  thing  of 
all.  How  a  man  of  my  experience  could  have — - 
Well,  I  won't  stop,  I'll  just  keep  on. 

"  With  the  coffee,  and  before  the  red-headed  Irish- 
man had  brought  the  bill — oh,  you  should  go  round 
to  Eoscari's  and  look  at  that  Irishman  just  to  see  how 

131 


THE  BEGUILING  OF  PETER  GEIGGS 

coarse  and  vulgar  a  man  can  be  who  spends  his  whole 
life  feeding  animals  who — no,  I  will  go  on,  for  the 
most  interesting  part  is  to  come.  When  the  coffee 
was  served,  I  say,  the  Large  Man  asked  the  waiter 
where  he  conld  send  a  telephone  message  to  his  hotel 
— wanted  the  porter  to  get  his  trunks  down.  The 
Irishman  answered :  '  Out  in  the  hall,  to  the  right 
o'  where  ye  come  in.'  '  I'll  go  with  you/  said  the 
Woman;  so  the  two  got  up  and  I  opened  the  door 
for  her,  and  we  three  sat  down  again — that  is,  the 
Small  Man,  the  Bostonian  and  myself. 

"  We  talked  on,  not  noticing  the  time ;  then  the 
Small  Man  looked  at  his  watch,  jumped  up  and  called 
out  to  the  waiter :  '  Where  did  you  say  that  telephone 
place  was  ? ' 

"  '  In  the  hall — on  the  other  side  of  that  dure ;  ye 
kin  see  it  from  where  ye're  sittinV 

"  '  Well,  he's  taking  a  devil  of  a  time  to  do  his 
telephoning,'  said  the  Small  Man.  '  Hold  on  to  my 
coffee  till  I  go  and  punch  him  up.' 

"  The  Bostonian  and  I  kept  on  talking.  He  was  a 
draughtsman  in  an  architect's  office,  so  he  told  me, 
and  was  promised  a  place  the  following  week,  and  I 
was  very  much  interested  in  what  he  told  me  of  his 
walking  the  streets  looking  for  work. 

"  Mike,  the  waiter,  now  laid  the  bill  on  the  table. 
I  didn't  want  to  know  the  amount ;  my  hosts  wouldn't 

132 


THE  BEGUILING  OF  PETER  GEIGGS 

want  me  to  see  it,  of  course,  and  so  I  didn't  look  at 
it.  The  Bostonian  craned  his  head,  but  I  forestalled 
his  glance  and  turned  a  plate  over  it  before  he  could 
read  the  total. 

"  Mike  now  approached. 

"  '  Ye'd  better  pay  now,'  he  said,  '  before  any  more 
o'  ye  skip.     It's  nine  dollars  and  sixty  cints.' 

"  <  They'll  all  be  back  in  a  minuxe/  I  said.  '  Wait 
till  they  come.     I'm  only  an  invited  guest.' 

"  '  I'll  wait  nothin'o  The  boss  is  out  and  I'm  in 
charge.     H'ist  out  yer  money.' 

"  The  Bostonian  had  risen  from  the  table  now  and 
was  looking  at  me  as  if  I'd  just  been  detected  in  pick- 
ing his  pocket. 

"  '  But  I'm  an  invited  guest,'  I  protested. 
"  ' Invited  guest,  are  ye  ? '  continued  the  Irish- 
man. '  And  ye  ordered  the  grub  yersilf !  You  heard 
him !  '  This  to  the  Bostonian.  '  Didn't  he  order  the 
stuff  ?  Let's  see  yer  wad.  ~No  more  o'  ye's  goin'  to 
l'ave  this  room  'till  I  gits  nine  dollars  and  sixty 
cints.  Here,  Macaroni ' — and  he  called  the  Italian 
— i  ring  up  the  station-house  and  till  thim  to  sind 
somebody  'round.  Ye  can't  play  that  game  on 
me !  " 

"  '  My  dear  fellow,'  I  said — I  had  now  to  be  as 
courteous  as  I  could — '  I  don't  want  to  play  anything 
on  you.     You  may  be  right  in  your  views  that  these 

133 


THE   BEGUILING    OF   PETER    GRJ^GS 

people  have  served  me  a  scurvy  trick,  but  I  don't 
Relieve  it.' 

"  '  Well,  thin,  pull  yer  wad  out,  or  I'll  call  the 
perlice.' 

"  '  Don't  do  anything  of  the  kind/  I  urged.  i  My 
name  is  Peter  Griggs  and  I  live  quite  near  here. 
Lived  there  for  twenty  years.  You  cam  find  out  all 
about  me  from  any  of  the  neighbors ;  I  haven't  enough 
money  with  me,  but  I'll  go  to  my  room  and  get  it/ 

"  '  No  ye  don't ;  none  o'  that  guff  f  ot  me !  '  You 
can't  think  how  coarse  he  was.  Then  he  walked 
deliberately  over  to  the  door  and  stood  with  his  back 
against  it. 

"  The  Bostonian  now  joined  in. 

"  '  It  looks  as  if  you  had  been  buncoed,  mf  friend/ 
he  said.  '  It's  an  old  dodge,  this,  of  getting  somebody 
to  pay  for  your  dinner,  especially  on  holidays,  and 
yet  I  can't  see  how  anybody  would  pick  you  out  as  a 
greenhorn.  I'd  divide  the  bill  with  you,  but  really, 
as  you  know,  I  haven't  the  money.'  I  saw  from  his 
i  tone  that  he  was  thinking  better  of  me. 

"  '  ISTo,  I'll  pay  it  myself.  You,  certainly,  were  not 
to  blame.  Will  you  go  to  my  room  with  me,  Mike  ? ' 
I  called  him  Mike  because  it  seemed  the  best  way  to 
conciliate  the  man. 

"  i  How  far  is  it  ? '  he  asked,  softening  a  little. 

"  '  Two  blocks.' 

t34 


THE    BEGUILING    OF    PETEE    GKIGGS 

"  '  And  ye'll  pay  if  I  go  % ' 

"  '  Of  course  I  will  pay.     Do  I  look  like  a  man 

who  would  cheat  you  % ' 

"  '  All  right,  come  on.' 

"  I  bade  the  Bostonian  good-by,  and  we  started. 

u  Mike  didn't  speak  a  word  on  the  way,  nor  did  I. 
I  felt  like  a  suspected  thief  that  a  policeman  was  tak- 
ing to  the  station-house;  I've  passed  them  many 
times  in  the  street,  and  I've  often  wondered  what  was 
passing  in  the  thief's  mind.  I  knew  now.  I  knew, 
too,  what  the  Bostonian  thought  of  me,  and  the 
Italian,  and  Hike. 

"  Then  a  shiver  went  through  me,  and  the  next 
moment  I  broke  out  into  a  cold  sweat.  I  suddenly 
remembered  that  I  hadn't  any  money  in  my  room.  I 
had  given  every  cent,  except  two  dollars  of  the  amount 
I  had  brought  uptown  with  me,  to  my  washerwoman 
the  night  before.  The  bill  was  not  due,  but  Airs. 
Jones  wanted  it  for  Thanksgiving  and  so  I  let  her 
have  it.  And  yet,  gentlemen — would  you  believe  it ! 
— I  walked  on,  trying  to  think  if  there  mightn't  be 
some  bills  in  the  vest  I'd  worn  the  day  before,  or  in 
the  top  drawer  of  my  desk  or  in  a  china  cup  on  the 
mantel.  Beally,  it  was  an  awful,  awful  position !  I 
couldn't  run!  I  couldn't  explain.  I  just  had  to 
keep  on. 

H  When  I  got  here  I  turned  up  the  light  and  asked 

135 


THE    BEGUILING    OF   PETEK    GKIGGS 

him  to  sit  down  while  I  searched  my  clothes— you 
can  see  what  disgrace  does  for  a  man — asked  a  com- 
mon, low,  vulgar  waiter  to  sit  down  in  my  room.  He 
didn't  sit  down — he  just  kept  walking  round  and 
round,  peering  into  the  bookcases,  handling  the  little 
things  on  the  mantel,  feeling  the  quality  of  the  cur- 
tain that  hangs  there  at  the  door — like  a  pawnbroker 
making  up  an  inventory. 

"  Finally  he  said :  *  Ye  got  a  nice  place  here  ' — 
the  first  words  that  had  come  from  his  lips  since  we 
left  the  restaurant.  '  The  boss  likes  these  jimcracks; 
he's  got  a  lot  o'  thim  up  where  he  lives.  I  seen  him 
pay  twinty  dollars  to  a  Jew-dago  for  one  o'  thim/ 
And  he  pointed  to  my  row  of  miniatures. 

"  By  this  time  I  was  face  to  face  with  the  awful 
truth.  There  was  nothing  in  the  vest-pocket,  nor  in 
the  cup,  and  there  was  nothing  in  the  drawer.  The 
only  money  I  had  was  the  two-dollar  bill  which  had 
been  left  over  after  paying  Mrs.  Jones.  I  spread  it 
out  before  him  and  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye — 
fearlessly — that  he  might  know  I  wasn't  telling  him 
an  untruth. 

"  '  My  good  man,'  I  said  in  my  kindest  voice,  '  I 
was  mistaken.  I  find  I  have  no  money.  I  have  paid 
Hway  every  cent  except  these  two  dollars;  take  this 
bill  and  let  me  come  in  to-morrow  and  pay  the 
balance/ 

136 


THE  BEGUILING  OF  PETEE  GKIGGS 

"  i  Good  man  be  damned !  '  he  said.  '  I  don't  want 
yer  two  dollars.  I'll  take  this  and  call  it  square.' 
Then  he  put  my  precious  Cosway  in  his  pocket  and 
without  another  word  walked  out  of  the  room." 

"  But  wouldn't  they  give  it  back  to  you  when  you 
went  for  it  %  "  I  blurted  out. 

Peter  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  drummed  on 
the  arm  with  his  fingers. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  I  have  been  ashamed  to  go.  I 
suppose  they  will  give  it  back  when  I  ask  them.  And 
every  day  I  intended  going  and  paying  them  the 
money,  and  every  day  I  shun  the  street  as  if  a  plague 
was  there.  I  will  go  some  time,  but  not  now.  Please 
don't  ask  me." 

"  Have  you  seen  none  of  them  since  \  "  inquired 
another  of  his  visitors. 

"  Only  the  Bostonian.  He  walked  up  to  me 
while  I  was  having  my  lunch  in  Nassau  Street  yes- 
terday. 

"  '  I  came  out  better  than  you  did,'  he  said.  l  The 
pass  was  good.  I  used  it  the  next  day.  Just  home 
from  the  Hub.'  " 

"  Accomplice,  maybe,"  remarked  Peter's  third 
visitor,  "  just  fooling  you  with  that  architect 
yarn." 

"  Buncoed  that  pass  out  of  somebody  else,"  sug- 
gested the  second  visitor. 

137 


THE   BEGUILING  OF  PETER  GRIGGS 

"  Perhaps/'  Peter  continued.  "  I  give  it  up.  It's 
one  of  the  things  that  can  never  be  explained.  The 
Bostonian  was  polite,  but  he  still  thinks  me  a  cheat. 
He  let  me  down  as  easy  as  he  could,  being  a  gentle- 
man, but  I  can  never  forget  that  he  saw  me  come  in 
with  them  and  order  the  dinner,  and  that  then  I  tried 
to  sneak  out  of  paying  for  it.  Oh,  it's  dreadful! 
Dreadful!" 

Peter  settled  in  his  seat  until  only  the  top  of  his 
red  skull  cap  showed  above  the  back  of  his  easy  chair. 
For  some  minutes  he  did  not  speak,  then  he  said 
slowly,  and  as  if  talking  to  himself : 

"  Mean,  mean  people  to  serve  me  so !  " 

Some  days  later  I  again  knocked  at  Peter's  door. 
I  had  determined,  with  or  without  his  consent,  to  go 
myself  to  Eoscari's,  redeem  the  miniature  and  ex- 
plain the  circumstances,  and  let  them  know  exactly 
who  Peter  was.  My  hand  had  hardly  touched  the 
panel  when  his  cheery  voice  rang  out : 

"  Whoever  you  are,  come  in !  " 

He  had  sprung  from  his  chair  now  and  had  ad- 
vanced to  greet  me. 

"  Oh,  is  it  you !  So  glad — come  over  here  before 
you  get  your  coat  off.     Look !  " 

"  The  Cosway !  You  paid  the  bill  and  redeemed 
it?" 

138 


THE  BEGUILING  OF  PETEE   GEIGGS 

"  Didn't  cost  me  a  cent." 

"  They  sent  it  to  you,  then,  and  apologized  ? ': 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind.  Give  me  your  hat  and 
coat  and  plump  yourself  down  on  that  chair  by  the 
fire.  Eve  got  the  most  extraordinary  story  to  tell 
you  you've  ever  heard  in  your  whole  life." 

He  was  himself  again — the  same  bubbling  spirit, 
the  same  warmth  in  his  manner,  foxes  out  frolicking, 
lighthouse  flashing,  everything  let  loose. 

"  Last  night  I  was  sitting  here  at  my  desk  writing, 
about  nine  o'clock,  as  near  as  I  can  remember  " — 
his  voice  dropped  now  to  a  tragic  whisper,  as  if  an 
encounter  with  a  burglar  was  to  follow — "  when-I- 
heard-a-heavy-tread-on-tlie-stairs,  getting  louder  and 
louder  as  it  reached  my  door.  Then  came  a  knock 
strong  enough  to  crack  the  panels.  I  got  up  at  once 
and  turned  the  knob.  In  the  corridor  stood  the  Large 
Man.  He  was  inside  before  I  could  stop  him — I 
couldn't  have  stopped  him.  You  have  no  idea,  my 
dear  friend,  how  big  and  strong  that  man  is.  What 
he  expected  to  see  I  don't  know,  but  it  evidently  was 
not  what  he  found. 

"  i  I  had  a  hell  of  a  time  finding  you,'  he  began, 
looking  about  him  in  astonishment.  '  Been  up  and 
down  everywhere  inquiring.  Only  got  your  num- 
ber from  that  red-headed  plate-shover  half  an  hour 


asro.'  " 


139 


THE  BEGUILING  OE  PETER  GRIGGS 

Peter's  voice  had  now  regained  its  customary 
volume : 

"  I  had  backed  to  the  fireplace  by  this  time  and  had 
1  picked  up  the  poker,  as  if  to  punch  the  fire,  but  I 
really  intended  to  strike  him  if  he  advanced  too  close 
or  tried  to  help  himself  to  any  of  my  things.  Eta 
never  took  the  slightest  notice  of  my  movements,  or 
waited  for  any  answer  to  his  outburst — just  kept 
right  on  talking. 

"  '  You  were  so  dead  easy  there  warn't  no  fun  in 
it.  I  dropped  to  that  the  first  time  you  opened  your 
head,  but  Sam  had  picked  you  out  and  it  had  to  go 
at  that.  My  wife  saw  his  mistake  as  soon  as  she  got 
her  eyes  on  you,  but  Sam,  like  a  fool,  wouldn't  listen. 
He  was  to  do  the  picking,  and  so  I  couldn't  say  a 
word.  When  we  all  got  outside,  clear,  we  took  a  turn 
around  Washington  Square  so  I  could  have  my  laugh 
out  on  Sam,  and  when  we  got  back  you  were  gone 
and  so  was  the  fellow  from  Boston  who  chipped 
in,  and  so  was  that  red-headed  Irish  waiter.  That 
knocked  us  silly — wife  gave  us  rats,  and  I  felt  like 
a  yellow  dog.  Been  a-feeling  so  ever  since.  The 
Dago  couldn't  or  wouldn't  understand.  Said  we'd 
better  come  in  when  the  boss  was  there.  We  had  to 
take  the  eleven  o'clock  to  Boston  that  night  and  had 
only  time  to  catch  the  train.     When  I  got  back  at 

140 


THE  BEGUILING  OF  PETER  GRIGGS 

six-ten  to-night  I  drove  to  Foscari's,  found  the 
Irishman  and  the  boss,  heard  how  he'd  pulled  your 
leg— paid  the  bill— $9.60,  wasn't  it  ?— that's  what 
he  said  it  was,  anyhow — and  here's  your  picture !  ' 

"  I  had  dropped  the  poker  now  and  was  motioning 
him  to  a  chair. 

"  '  Xo,  thank  you,  I  won't  sit  down ;  ain't  got  time. 
Got  to  take  the  eleven  forty-five  for  Chicago.  Well, 
we  had  a  lot  of  fun  out  of  it,  anyhow,  only  I  didn't 
intend  it  should  end  up  the  way  it  did.  Just  wanted 
to  get  even  with  Sam  and  win  my  bet.' 

"  '  Bet  ? '  I  asked.  I  was  still  in  the  dark  as  to 
what  he  meant. 

"  '  Yes — bet  Sam  I'd  bunco  any  Xew  York  man 
he'd  pick  out,  and  you  happened  to  be  the  one.  You 
see,  wife  and  I  and  Sam  were  here  for  a  few  days  and 
we  struck  Thanksgiving  and  wanted  some  fun,  and 
we  had  it.  You're  white,  old  man  all  the  way  through 
— white  as  cotton  and  our  kind — never  flunked  once> 
or  turned  a  hair.  Sally  took  an  awful  shine  to  you. 
Shake!  Xext  time  I'm  in  Xew  York  I'll  look  you 
up  and  if  you  ever  come  out  our  way  we'll  open  a 
keg  o'  nails,  and  make  it  red-hot  for  you,  and  don't 
you  forget  it.  Here's  my  card,  so  you  can  re- 
member.' " 

Peter  picked  up  the  card  from  the  table,  threw  up 

141 


THE  BEGUILING  OE  PETEK  GKIGGS 

Iris  chin,  and  broke  into  one  of  his  infectious  laughs. 
I  reached  over  and  took  it  from  his  hand.  It  bore  this 
inscription : 


J.   C.    MURPHY 

General  Travelling  Agent 
C.  S.  &  Q.  R.  R. 


Ogden,   Utah 


142 


MISS  JENNINGS'S  COMPANION 


MISS   JENNINGS'S  COMPANION 

The  big  Liner  slowed  down  and  dropped  anchor 
inside  the  Breakwater.  Sweeping  toward  her,  push- 
ing the  white  foam  in  long  lines  from  her  bow,  her 
flag  of  black  smoke  trailing  behind,  came  the  com- 
pany's tender — out  from  Cherbourg  with  passengers. 

Under  the  big  Liner's  upper  deck,  along  its  top 
rail,  was  strung  a  row  of  heads  watching  the  tender's 
approach — old  heads — young  heads — middle-aged 
heads — Miss  Jennings's  among  these  last — their 
eyes  taking  in  the  grim  Breakwater  with  its  beacon 
light,  the  frowning  casemates  specked  with  sentinels, 
and  the  line  of  the  distant  city  blurred  with  masts 
and  spent  steam.  They  saw,  too,  from  their  height 
(they  could  look  down  the  tender's  smokestack)  the 
sturdy  figure  of  her  Captain,  his  white  cap  in  relief 
against  the  green  sea,  and  below  him  the  flat  mass 
of  people,  their  upturned  faces  so  many  pats  of  color 
on  a  dark  canvas. 

With  the  hauling  taut  and  making  fast  of  the  fore 
and  aft  hawsers,  a  group  of  sailors  broke  away  from 

145 


MISS    JENNINGS'S    COMPANION 

the  flat  mass  and  began  tugging  at  the  gangplank, 
lifting  it  into  position,  the  boatswain's  orders  ringing 
clear.  Another  group  stripped  off  the  tarpaulins 
from  the  piles  of  luggage,  and  a  third — the  gang- 
plank in  place — swarmed  about  the  heaps  of  trunks, 
shouldering  the  separate  pieces  as  ants  shoulder 
grains  of  sand,  then  scurrying  toward  the  tender's 
rail,  where  other  ants  reached  down  and  relieved  them 
of  their  loads. 

The  mass  of  people  below  now  took  on  the  shape  of 
a  funnel,  its  spout  resting  on  the  edge  of  the  gang- 
plank, from  out  which  poured  a  steady  stream  of 
people  up  and  over  the  Liner's  side. 

Two  decks  below  where  Miss  Jennings  and  her 
fellow-travellers  were  leaning  over  the  steamer's  rail 
craning  their  necks,  other  sights  came  into  view. 
Here  not  only  the  funnel-shaped  mass  could  be  seen, 
but  the  faces  of  the  individuals  composing  it,  as  well 
as  their  nationality  and  class;  whether  first,  second 
or  steerage.  Here,  too,  was  the  line  of  stewards 
reaching  out  with  open  hands,  relieving  the  passen- 
gers of  their  small  belongings;  here  too  stood  the 
First  Officer  in  white  gloves  and  gold  lace  bowing  to 
those  he  knew  and  smiling  at  others;  and  here  too 
was  a  smooth-shaven,  closely-knit  young  man  in  dark 

>thes  aud  derby  hat,  who  had  taken  up  his  position 
just  behind  the  First  Officer,  and  whose  steady  steel 

146 


MISS    JEKNUSTGS'S    COMPANION 

gray  eves  followed  the  movements  of  each  and  every 
one  of  the  passengers  from  the  moment  their  feet 
touched  the  gangplank  nntil  they  had  disappeared 
in  charge  of  the  stewards. 

These  passengers  made  a  motley  group :  first  came 
a  stout  American  with  two  pretty  daughters ;  then  a 
young  Frenchman  and  his  valet;  then  a  Sister  of 
Charity  draped  in  black,  her  close-fitting,  white, 
starched  cap  and  broad  white  collar  framing  her  face, 
one  hand  clutching  the  rope  rail  as  she  stepped  feebly 
toward  the  steamer,  the  other  grasping  a  bandbox, 
her  only  luggage ;  next  wriggled  some  college  boys  in 
twos  and  threes,  and  then  the  rest  of  the  hurrying 
mass,  followed  close  by  a  herd  of  emigrants  crowding 
and  stumbling  like  sheep,  the  men  with  pillow-case 
bundles  over  their  backs,  the  women  with  babies 
muffled  in  shawls. 

When  the  last  passenger  was  aboard,  the  closely- 
knit  young  man  with  the  steel  gray  eyes  leaned  for- 
ward and  said  in  a  low  voice  to  the  First  Officer : 

"  He's  not  in  this  bunch." 

"Sure?" 

"  Yes — dead  sure." 

"  Where  will  you  look  for  him  now,  Hobson '( " 
continued  the  officer. 

"  Paris,  maybe.  I  told  the  Chief  we  wouldn't  get 
anywhere  on  this  lead.     Well,  so  long  " — and  the 

147 


MISS   JENNINGS'S   COMPANION 

closely-knit  young  man  swung  himself  down  the  gang- 
plank and  disappeared  into  the  cabin  of  the  tender. 

The  scenes  on  the  gangplank  were  now  repeated 
on  the  steamer.  The  old  travellers,  whose  hand  lug- 
gage had  been  properly  numbered,  gave  themselves 
no  concern — the  stewards  would  look  after  their  be- 
longings. The  new  travellers — the  Sister  of  Charity 
among  them — wandered  about  asking  questions  that 
for  the  moment  no  one  had  time  to  answer.  She, 
poor  soul,  had  spent  her  life  in  restful  places,  and  the 
in-rush  of  passengers  and  their  proper  bestowal 
seemed  to  have  completely  dazed  her. 

"  Can  I  help  you  ?  "  asked  the  First  Officer — every- 
body is  ready  to  help  a  Sister,  no  matter  what  his 
rank  or  how  pressing  his  duties. 

"  Yes,  please — I  want  to  know  where  my  room  is. 
It  is  Number  49,  so  my  ticket  says." 

Here  the  Purser  came  up — he,  too,  would  help 
a  Sister. 

"  Sister  Teresa,  is  it  not — from  the  Convent  of 
the  Sacred  Heart  ?  Yes,  we  knew  you  would  get  on 
at  Cherbourg.  You  are  on  the  lower  deck  in  the  same 
stateroom  with  Miss  Jennings.  Steward — take  the 
Sister  to " 

"  With  whom  ? "  she  cried,  with  a  look  of  blank 
amazement.     "  But  I  thought  I  was  alone !     They 

148 


MISS   JENNINGS'S    COMPANION 

told  me  so  at  the  office.  Oh,  I  cannot  share  my  room 
with  anybody.     Please  let " 

"  Yes,  but  we  had  to  double  up.  We  would  will- 
ingly give  you  a  room  alone,  but  there  isn't  an  empty 
berth  on  board."  He  was  telling  the  truth  and 
showed  it  in  his  voice. 

"  But  I  have  the  money  to  pay  for  a  whole  room. 
I  would  have  paid  for  it  at  the  office  in  Paris,  but 
they  told  me  it  was  not  necessary." 

"  I  know,  Sister,  and  I'm  very  sorry,  but  it  can't 
be  helped  now.  Steward,  take  Sister  Teresa  to  dum- 
ber 49."  This  last  came  as  an  order,  and  ended  the 
discussion. 

When  the  Steward  pushed  open  the  door  Miss  Jen- 
nings was  sitting  on  the  sofa  berth  reading,  a  long 
gray  cloak  about  her  shoulders.  She  had  a  quiet, 
calm  face  and  steady  eyes  framed  in  gold  spectacles. 
She  looked  to  be  a  woman  of  fifty  who  had  seen  life 
and  understood  it. 

"  The  officer  says  I  am  to  share  your  room,"  began 
Sister  Teresa  in  a  trembling  voice.  "  Don't  think 
me  rude,  please,  but  I  don't  want  to  share  your  room. 
I  want  to  be  alone,  and  so  do  you.  Can't  you  help 
me  ?  " 

"  But  I  don't  mind  it,  and  you  won't  after  you  get 
used  to  it."     The  voice  was  poised  and  well  modu- 

149 


MISS    JENNINGS'S    COMPANION 

lated — evidently  a  woman  without  nerves — a  direct, 
masterful  sort  of  woman,  who  looked  you  straight  in 
the  eyes,  was  without  guile,  hated  a  lie  and  believed 
in  human  nature.  "  And  we  ought  to  get  on  to- 
gether," she  continued  simply,  as  if  it  were  a  matter 
of  course.  "  You  are  a  Sister,  and  from  one  of  the 
French  institutions — I  recognize  your  dress.  I'm  a 
nurse  from  the  London  Hospital.  The  First  Officer 
told  me  you  had  the  other  berth  and  I  was  looking 
for  you  aboard  the  Cherbourg  tender,  but  I  couldn't 
see  you  for  the  smoke,  you  were  so  far  below  me. 
We'll  get  on  together,  never  fear.  Which  bed  will 
you  have — this  one  or  the  one  curtained  off  %  " 

"  Oh,  do  you  take  the  one  curtained  off,"  she  an- 
swered in  a  hopeless  tone,  as  if  further  resistance  was 
useless.  "  The  sofa  is  easier  perhaps  for  me,  for  I 
always  undress  in  the  dark." 

"  No,  turn  on  the  light.  It  won't  wake  me — I'm 
used  to  sleeping  anywhere — sometimes  bolt  upright 
in  my  chair  with  my  hand  on  my  patient." 

"  But  it  is  one  of  the  rules  of  our  order  to  dress 
and  undress  in  the  dark,"  the  Sister  pleaded ;  "  can- 
dles are  luxuries  only  used  for  the  sick,  and  so  we 
do  without  them." 

"  All  right — just  as  you  say,"  rejoined  Miss  Jen- 
nings cheerily.  "  My  only  desire  was  to  make  you 
comfortable." 

150 


MISS    JEXXIXGS'S    COMPANION 

That  night  at  dinner  Sister  Teresa  and  Xurse 
Jennings  found  themselves  seated  next  to  each  other, 
the  Chief  Steward,  who  had  special  orders  from  the 
First  Officer  to  show  Miss  Jennings  and  her  com- 
panion every  courtesy,  having  conducted  them  to 
their  seats. 

Before  the  repast  was  half  over,  the  two  had  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  all  about  them.  What  was 
particularly  noticed  was  the  abstemious  self-denying 
life  of  the  Sister  so  plainly  shown  in  the  lines  of  her 
grave,  almost  hard,  face,  framed  close  in  the  tight 
bands  of  white  linen  concealing  every  vestige  of  her 
hair,  the  whole  in  strong  contrast  to  the  kind,  sympa- 
thetic face  of  the  Xurse,  whose  soft  gray  locks  hung 
loosely  about  her  temples.  Their  history,  gleaned  at 
the  First  Officer's  table  had  also  become  public  prop- 
erty. Xurse  Jennings  had  served  two  years  in  South 
Africa,  where  she  had  charge  of  a  ward  in  one  of  the 
largest  field  hospitals  outside  of  Pretoria;  on  her 
return  to  England,  she  had  been  placed  over  an  im- 
portant case  in  one  of  the  London  hospitals — that 
of  a  gallant  Canadian  officer  who  had  been  shipped 
home  convalescent,  and  who  had  now  sent  for  her 
to  come  to  him  in  Montreal.  The  good  Sister  was  one 
of  those  unfortunate  women  who  had  been  expelled 
from  Prance  under  the  new  law,  and  who  was  now 
on  her  way  to  Quebec,  there  to  take  up  her  life-work 

151 


MISS    JENNINGS'S    COMPANION 

again.  This  had  been  the  fifth  refugee,  the  officer 
added,  whom  the  Line  had  cared  for. 

When  the  hour  for  retiring  came,  Sister  Teresa, 
with  the  remark  that  she  would  wait  until  Miss  Jen- 
nings was  in  bed  before  she  sought  her  own  berth, 
followed  her  companion  to  the  stateroom,  bade  her 
good-night,  and  then,  with  her  hand  on  the  knob, 
lingered  for  a  moment  as  if  there  was  still  some  fur- 
ther word  on  her  lips. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  Nurse,  with  one  of  her 
direct,  searching  glances.  "  Speak  out — I'm  a 
woman  like  yourself,  and  can  understand." 

"  Well,  it's  about  the  Hour  of  Silence.  I  must 
have  one  hour  every  day  when  I  can  be  alone.  It  has 
been  the  custom  of  my  life  and  I  cannot  omit  it.  It 
will  be  many  days  before  we  reach  the  land,  and 
there  is  no  other  place  for  me  to  pray  except  in  here. 
Would  you  object  if  I " 

"  Object !  Of  course  not !  I  will  help  you  to  keep 
it,  and  I  will  see,  too,  that  the  Stewardess  r'oes  not 
disturb  you.  Now,  is  there  anything  else  ?  x  ell  me 
■ — I  love  people  who  speak  right  out  what  they  mean." 

"  No — except  that  I  always  rise  at  dawn,  and  will 
be  gone  when  you  wake.    Good-night." 

The  morning  after  this  first  night  the  two  lay  in 
their  steamer  chairs  on  the  upper  deck.     The  First 

152 


MISS    JEXXIXGS'S    COMPANION 

Officer,  noticing  them  together,  paused  for  a  mome** 
on  his  way  to  the  bridge: 

"  You  knew,  of  course,  Miss  Jennings,  that  Hob 
son  went  back  to  Cherbourg  on  the  tender.  He  lef ' 
good-by  for  you." 

"  Hunting  for  somebody,  as  usual,  I  suppose  ? ': 
she  rejoined. 

"  Yes  " — and  he  passed  on. 

"  A  wretched  life,  isn't  it,"  said  Xurse  Jennings, 
u  this  hunting  for  criminals  \  This  same  man,  Mr. 
Hobson,  after  a  hunt  of  months,  found  one  in  my 
ward  with  a  bullet  through  his  chest." 

"  You  know  him  then  ?  "  asked  Sister  Teresa,  with 
a  tremor  in  her  voice. 

"  Yes — he's  a  Scotland  Yard  man." 

"  And  you  say  he  was  looking  for  some  one  on 
board  and  didn't  find  him  ?  " 

"  Xo,  not  yet,  but  he  will  find  him,  he  always  does ; 
that's  the  pity  of  it.  Some  of  these  poor  hunted  peo- 
ple would  lead  a  different  life  if  they  had  another 
chance.  I  tried  to  save  the  one  Hobson  found  in  my 
ward.  He  was  quite  frank  with  me,  and  told  me 
everything.  When  people  trust  me  my  heart  always 
goes  out  to  them — so  much  so  that  I  often  do  very 
foolish  things  that  are  apt  to  get  me  into  trouble. 
It's  when  they  lie  to  me — and  so  many  do — making 
one  excuse  after  another  for  their  being  in  the  ward 

153 


MISS   JENNINGS'S    COMPANION 

■ — that  I  lose  all  interest  in  them.  I  pleaded  with  Hob- 
son  to  give  the  man  another  chance,  but  I  could  do 
nothing.  Thief  as  he  was,  he  had  told  the  truth.  He 
had  that  quality  left,  and  I  liked  him  for  it.  If  I  had 
known  Hobson  was  on  his  track  I'd  have  helped  him 
in  some  way  to  get  off.  He  stole  to  help  his  old 
mother,  and  wasn't  a  criminal  in  any  sense — only 
weak-hearted.  The  law  is  cruel — it  never  makes 
allowances — that's  where  it  is  wrong." 

"  Cruel ! — it's  brutal.  It  is  more  brutal  often  than 
the  crime,"  answered  Sister  Teresa  in  a  voice  full  of 
emotion.  "  Do  you  think  the  man  your  friend  wTas> 
looking  for  here  on  board  will  escape  ? ?: 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  not.  There  is  very  little  chance 
of  any  criminal  escaping  when  they  once  get  on  his 
track,  so  Mr.  Hobson  has  told  me.  If  he  is  on  this 
steamer  he  must  run  another  gauntlet  in  New  York, 
even  if  he  is  among  the  emigrants.  You  know  we 
have  over  a  thousand  on  board.  If  he  is  not 
aboard  they  will  track  him  down.  Dreadful, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  Sister  Teresa,  a  sob  in  her 
voice,  "  how  sorry  I  am  for  him.  If  men  only  knew 
how  much  wiser  mercy  is  than  justice  in  the  redemp- 
tion of  the  world."  Here  she  rose  from  her  chair, 
and  gathering  her  black  cloak  about  her  crossed  to 
the  rail  and  looked  out  to  sea.     In  a  few  minutes  she 

154 


MISS    JENNINGS'S    COMPANION 

returned.  "  Let  us  walk  out  to  the  bow  where  we 
can  talk  undisturbed,"  she  said.  "  The  constant 
movement  of  the  passengers  on  deck,  passing  back- 
ward and  forward,  disturbs  my  head.  I  see  so  few 
people,  you  know." 

"When  they  reached  the  bow,  she  made  a  place 
beside  her  for  the  Nurse. 

"  Don't  misunderstand  what  I  said  about  the  bru- 
tality of  the  law,"  she  began.    "  There  must  be  laws, 
and  brutal  men  who  commit  brutal  crimes  must  be 
punished.     But  there  are  so  many  men  who  are  not 
brutal,  although  the  crimes  may  be.     I  knew  of  one 
once.     We  had  educated  his  little  daughter — such  a 
sweet  child!     The  man  himself  was  a  scene-painter 
and  worked  in  the  theatres  in  London.     Sometimes 
he  would  take  part  in  the  play  himself,  making  up 
for  the  minor  characters,  although  most  of  his  time 
was  spent  in  painting  scenery.     He  had  married  a 
woman  who  was  on  the  stage,  and  she  had  deserted 
him  for  one  of  the  actors,  and  left  her  child  behind. 
Her  faithlessness  nearly  broke  his  heart.     Through 
one  of  our  own  people  in  London  he  found  us  and 
sent  the  child  to  the  convent  where  we  have  a  school 
for  just  such  cases.     When  the  girl  got  to  be  seven- 
teen years  old  he  sent  for  her  and  she  went  to  London 
to  see  him.    He  remembered  her  mother's  career,  and 
guarded  her  like  a  little  plant.    He  never  allowed  her 

155 


MISS    JENNINGS'S    COMPANION 

to  come  to  the  theatre  except  in  the  middle  of  the  day. 
Then  she  would  come  where  he  was  at  work  up  on 
the  top  of  the  painting  platform  high  above  the  stage. 
There  he  and  she  would  be  alone.  One  morning 
while  he  was  at  work  one  of  the  scene-shifters — a  man 
with  whom  he  had  had  some  difficulty — met  the  girl 
as  she  was  crossing  the  high  platform.  He  had  never 
seen  her  before  and,  thinking  she  was  one  of  the 
chorus  girls,  threw  his  arm  about  her.  The  girl 
screamed,  the  scene-painter  dropped  his  brushes,  ran 
to  her  side,  hit  the  man  in  the  face — the  scene-shifter 
lost  his  balance  and  fell  to  the  stage.  Before  he  died 
in  the  hospital  he  told  who  had  struck  him ;  he  told 
why,  too ;  that  the  scene-painter  hated  him ;  and  that 
the  two  had  had  an  altercation  the  day  before — about 
some  colors;  which  was  not  true,  there  only  having 
been  a  difference  of  opinion.  The  man  fled  to  Paris 
with  his  daughter.  The  girl  today  is  at  one  of  our 
institutions  at  Rouen.  The  detectives,  suspecting 
that  he  would  try  to  see  her,  have  been  watching  that 
place  for  the  last  five  months.  All  that  time  he  has 
been  employed  in  the  garden  of  a  convent  out  of 
Paris.  Last  week  we  heard  from  a  Sister  in  London 
that  some  one  had  recognized  him,  although  he  had 
shaved  off  his  beard — some  visitor  or  parent  of  one 
of  the  children,  perhaps,  who  had  come  upon  him 
suddenly  while  at  work  in  the  garden  beds.     He  is 

156 


MISS    JENNINGS'S    COMPANION 

now  a  fugitive,  hunted  like  an  animal.  He  never 
intended  to  harm  this  man — he  only  tried  to  save 
his  daughter — and  yet  he  knew  that  because  of  the 
difficulty  that  he  had  had  with  the  dead  man  and  the 
fact  that  his  daughter's  testimony  would  not  help 
him — she  being  an  interested  person — he  would  be 
made  to  suffer  for  a  crime  he  had  not  intended  to 
commit.  Now,  would  you  hand  this  poor  father  over 
to  the  police  ?  In  a  year  his  daughter  must  leave  the 
convent.     She  then  has  no  earthly  protection." 

Miss  Jennings  gazed  out  over  the  sea,  her  brow 
knit  in  deep  thought.  Her  mind  went  back  to  the 
wounded  criminal  in  the  hospital  cot  and  to  the  look 
of  fear  and  agony  that  came  into  his  eyes  when  Hob- 
son  stood  over  him  and  called  him  by  name.  Sister 
Teresa  sat  watching  her  companion's  face.  Her 
whole  life  had  been  one  of  mercy  and  she  never  lost 
an  opportunity  to  plead  its  cause. 

The  Nurse's  answer  came  slowly: 

"  No,  I  would  not.  There  is  misery  enough  in  the 
world  without  my  adding  to  it." 

"  Would  you  help  him  to  escape  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  what  you  tell  me  is  true  and  he  trusted 
me." 

Sister  Teresa  rose  to  her  feet,  crossed  herself,  and 
said  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  come  through  pent-up 
tears: 

157 


MISS   JENNINGS'S    COMPANION 

"  Thank  God !  I  go  now  to  pray.  It  is  my  Hour 
of  Silence." 

When  she  returned,  Nurse  Jennings  was  still  in 
her  seat  in  the  bow.  The  sun  shone  bright  and  warm, 
and  the  sea  had  become  calm." 

"  You  look  rested,  Sister,"  she  said,  looking  up 
into  her  face.  "  Your  color  is  fresher  and  the  dark 
rings  have  gone  from  your  eyes.    Did  you  sleep  ?  " 

"  No,  I  wait  for  the  night  to  sleep.  It  is  hard 
enough  then." 

"  What  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  prayed  for  you  and  for  myself.  Come  to  the 
stateroom — I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

"  Tell  it  here,"  said  Nurse  Jennings  in  a  more 
positive  tone. 

"  No,  it  might  hurt  you,  and  others  will  notice. 
Come  quick,  please,  or  my  courage  will  fail." 

"  Can't  I  hear  it  to-night "  She  was  comforta- 
ble where  she  was  and  remembered  the  narrow,  steep 
steps  to  the  lower  deck. 

"  No !  come  now — and  quick" 

At  the  tone  of  agony  in  the  Sister's  voice  Miss 
Jennings  scrutinized  her  companion's  face.  Her 
trained  ear  had  caught  an  indrawn,  fluttering  sob 
which  she  recognized  as  belonging  to  a  certain  form 
of  hysteria.     Brooding  over  her  troubles,  combined 

158 


MISS    JENNINGS'S    COMPANION 

with  the  effects  of  the  sea  air,  had  unstrung  the  dear 
Sister's  nerves. 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  assented  Miss  Jennings.  "  Let 
me  take  your  arm — step  carefully,  and  lean  on  me." 

On  reaching  the  stateroom,  Sister  Teresa  waited 
until  Miss  Jennings  had  entered,  then  she  locked  the 
door  and  pulled  the  curtains  close. 

"  Listen,   Miss   Jennings,   before   you   judge  me. 
You  remember  yesterday  how  I  pleaded  with  you 
to  help  me  find  a  bedroom  where  I  could  be  alone. 
You  would  not,  and  I  could  do  nothing  but  let  mat- 
ters take  their  course.     Fate  has  placed  me  in  your 
hands.    When  you  said  that  you  were  on  the  lookout 
for  me  and  that  you  knew  Hobson,  the  detective,  I 
knew  that  all  was  lost  unless  your  heart  went  out 
to  me.     I  know  him,  too.     I  faced  his  eyes  when  I 
came  aboard.     I  staggered  with  fright  and  caught 
at  the  ropes,  but  he  did  not  suspect — I  saw  in  his  face 
that  he  did  not.     He  may  still  trace  me  and  arrest 
me  when  I  land.    If  anybody  comes  for  me,  say  you 
met  me  in  the  hospital  where  you  work." 

Nurse  Jennings  stood  staring  into  the  woman's 
eyes.     Her  first  impulse  was  to  ring  the  bell  for  the 
Steward   and   send  for  the   ship's   doctor.      Sudden 
-  insanity,  the  result  of  acute  hysteria,  was  not  uncom- 
mon in  women  leading  sedentary  lives  who  had  gone- 
ISO 


MISS    JENNINGS'S    COMPANION 

through  a  heavy  strain,  and  the  troubles  of  this  poor 
Sister  had,  she  saw,  unseated  her  reason. 

"  Don't  talk  so — calm  yourself.  No  one  is  seeking 
you.     You  ought  to  lie  down.    Come " 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  think  I  am  crazy — I  am  crazy 
— crazy  from  a  horrible  fear  that  stares  me  in  the 
f ace — from  a  spectre  that " 

"  Sister,  you  must  lie  down !  I'll  ring  for  the 
Doctor  and  he " 

Sister  Teresa  sprang  forward  and  caught  the  hand 
of  the  Nurse  before  it  touched  the  bell. 

"  Stop!  Stop! — or  all  will  be  lost!  I  am  not  a 
Sister — I  am  the  scene-painter — the  father  of  that 
girl !  See !  "  He  threw  back  his  hood,  uncovering 
Iris  head  and  exposed  his  short-cropped  hair. 

Nurse  Jennings  turned  quickly  and  looked  her 
companion  searchingly  in  the  face.  The  surprise 
nad  been  so  great  that  for  an  instant  her  breath  left 
her.  Then  slowly  the  whole  situation  rushed  over 
and  upon  her.  This  man  had  made  use  of  her  privacy 
— had  imposed  upon  her — tricked  her. 

"  And  you — you  have  dared  to  come  into  this 
room,  making  me  believe  you  were  a  woman — and 
lied  to  me  about  your  Hour  of  Silence  and  all 
the " 

"  It  was  the  only  way  I  could  be  safe.  You  and 
everybody  else  would  detect  me  if  I  did  not  shave 

160 


MISS    JEXNINGS'S    COMPANION 

and  fix  up  my  face.  You  said  a  minute  ago  the 
dark  rings  had  gone  from  my  eyes — it  is  this  paint- 
hox  that  did  it.  Think  of  what  it  would  mean  to 
me  to  be  taken — and  my  little  girl!  Don't — don't 
judge  me  wrongly.  When  I  get  to  New  York  I 
promise  never  to  see  you  again — no  one  will  ever 
know.  If  you  had  been  my  own  sister  I  could  not 
have  treated  you  with  more  respect  since  I  have  been 
in  the  room.    I  will  do  anything  you  wish — to-night 

I  will  sleep  on  the  floor — anything,  if " 

"  To-night !    Not  another  hour  will  you  stay  here. 

I  will  go  to  the  Purser  at  once  and " 

"  You  mean  to  turn  me  out  ?  " 
"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  merciful  God !  Don't !  Listen— you  must 
listen.  Let  me  stay !  What  difference  should  it  maks 
to  you.  You  have  nursed  hundreds  of  men.  You 
have  saved  many  lives.  Save  mine — give  me  back 
mv  little  «;irl !  She  can  come  to  me  in  Quebec  and 
then  we  can  get  away  somewhere  in  America  and  be 
safe.  I  can  still  pass  as  a  Sister  and  she  as  a  child 
in  my  charge  until  I  can  find  some  place  where  I  can 
throw  off  my  disguise.  See  how  good  the  real  Sis- 
ters are  to  me ;  they  do  not  condemn  me.  Here  is  a 
letter  from  the  Mother  Superior  in  Paris  to  the 
Mother  Superior  of  a  convent  in  Quebec.  It  is  not 
forged — it  is  genuine.     If  they  believe  in  me,  why 

161 


MISS    JENNINGS'S    COMPANION 

cannot  you?  Let  me  stay  here,  and  you  stay,  too. 
You  would  if  you  could  see  my  child." 

The  sound  of  a  heavy  step  was  heard  outside  in  the 
corridor. 

Then  came  a  quick,  commanding  voice :  "  Miss 
Jennings,  open  the  door,  please." 

The  Nurse  turned  quickly  and  made  a  step  toward 
the  door.  The  fugitive  sank  upon  the  sofa  and  drew 
the  hood  over  his  face. 

Again  her  name  rang  out — this  time  in  a  way  that 
showed  them  both  that  further  delay  was  out  of  the 
question. 

Nurse  Jennings  shot  back  the  bolt. 

Outside  stood  the  First  Officer. 

"  There  has  been  a  bad  accident  in  the  steerage. 
I  hate  to  ask  you,  Miss  Jennings,  knowing  how  tired 
you  are — but  one  of  the  emigrants  has  fallen  down 
the  forecastle  hatch.  The  Doctor  wants  you  to  come 
at  once." 

During  the  rest  of  the  voyage  Nurse  Jennings 
slept  in  the  steerage;  she  would  send  to  Number  49 
during  the  day  for  her  several  belongings,  but  she 
never  passed  the  night  there,  nor  did  she  see  her 
companion.  The  case  was  serious,  she  told  the  Stew- 
ardess, who  came  in  search  of  her,  and  she  dared  not 
leave. 

162 


MISS    JENNINGS'S    COMPACTION 

The  fugitive  rarely  left  the  stateroom.  Some 
days  he  pleaded  illness  and  had  his  meals  brought  to 
him ;  often  he  ate  nothing. 

As  the  day  approached  for  the  vessel  to  arrive  in 
New  York  a  shivering  nervousness  took  possession 
of  him.  He  would  stand  behind  the  door  by  the  hour 
listening  for  her  lightest  footfall,  hoping  against  hope 
that,  after  all,  her  heart  would  soften  toward  him. 
0?»e  thought  absorbed  him:  would  she  betray  him, 
aud  if  so,  when  and  where  \  Would  it  be  to  the  First 
Officer — the  friend  of  Hobson — or  would  she  wait 
until  they  reached  Xew  York  and  then  hand  him  over 
to  the  authorities  ? 

Only  one  gleam  of  hope  shone  out  illumining  his 
doubt,  and  that  was  that  she  never  sent  to  the  state- 
room during  the  Hour  of  Silence,  thus  giving  him  a 
chance  to  continue  his  disguise.     Even  this  ray  was 
dimmed  when  he  began  to  realize  as  they  approached 
their  destination  that  she  had  steadily  avoided  him, 
even  choosing  another  deck  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air 
whenever  she  left  her  patient.     That  she  had  wel- 
comed the  accident  to  the  emigrant  as  an  excuse  for 
remaining  away  from  her  stateroom   was   evident. 
What  he  could  not  understand  was,  if  she  really  pitied 
and  justified  him,  as  she  had  done  his  prototype,  why 
she  should  now  treat  him  with  such  suspicion.     At 
her  request  he  had  opened  his  heart  and  had  trusted 

163 


MISS    JENNINGS'S    COMPANION 

her;  why  then  could  she  not  forgive  him  for  the 
deceit  of  that  first  night — one  for  which  he  was  not 
responsible  ? 

Then  a  new  thought  chilled  him  like  an  icy  wind : 
her  avoidance  of  him  was  only  an  evidence  of  her 
purjDose !  Thus  far  she  had  not  exposed  him,  because 
then  it  would  be  known  aboard  that  they  had  shared 
the  stateroom  together.  He  saw  it  all  now.  She  was 
waiting  until  they  reached  the  dock.  Then  no  one 
would  be  the  wiser. 

When  the  steamer  entered  her  New  York  slip  and 
the  gangplank  was  hoisted  aboard,  another  thick-set, 
closely-knit  man  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd 
at  the  rail,  walked  straight  to  the  Purser  and  whis- 
pered something  in  his  ear.  The  next  moment  he 
had  glided  to  where  the  Nurse  and  fugitive  were 
standing. 

"  This  is  Miss  Jennings,  isn't  it  ?  I'm  from  the 
Central  Office,"  and  he  opened  his  coat  and  displayed 
the  gold  shield.  "  We've  just  got  a  cable  from  Hob- 
son.  He  said  you  were  on  board  and  might  help. 
I'm  looking  for  a  man.  We've  got  no  clew — don't 
know  that  he's  on  board,  but  I  thought  we'd  look 
the  list  over.  The  Purser  tells  me  that  you  helped 
the  Doctor  in  the  steerage — says  somebody  had  been 
smashed  up.  Got  anything  to  suggest? — anybody 
that  would  fit  this  description : 6  Small  man,  only  fLYe- 

164 


''  He's  a  slick  one,  we  hear,  and  may  be  working  a  stunt  in  disguise' 


MISS    JEXXIXGS'S    COMPANION 

feet-six ;  blue  eyes  '  " — and  he  read  from  a  paper  in 
his  hand. 

"  jSToj  I  don't  think  so.  I  wa6  in  the  steerage,  of 
course,  four  or  five  days,  and  helped  on  a  bad  case, 
but  I  didn't  notice  anybody  but  the  few  people  imme- 
diately about  me." 

"  Perhaps,  then,  among  the  first-class  passengers  ? 
Anybody  peculiar  there  ?  He's  a  slick  one,  we  hear, 
and  may  be  working  a  stunt  in  disguise." 

"  Xo.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  so  tired  when 
I  came  aboard  that  I  hardly  spoke  to  any  one — no  one, 
really,  except  my  dear  Sister  Teresa  here,  who  shared 
my  stateroom.  They  have  driven  her  out  of  France 
and  she  is  on  her  way  to  a  convent  in  Quebec.  I  go 
with  her  as  far  as  Montreal." 


165 


SAM   JOPLIN'S  EPIGASTRIC  NERVE 


SAM   JOPLIIN'S  EPIGASTRIC  NERVE 


"  You  eat  too  much,  Marny."  It  was  Joplin,  of 
Boston,  who  was  speaking — Samuel  Epigastric  Jop- 
lin,  his  brother  painters  called  him.  "  You  treat  your 
stomach  as  if  it  were  a  scrap-basket  and  you  dump 
into  it  everything  you " 

"I  do ?    You  caricature  of  a  codfish  ball !  " 

"  Yes,  you  do.  You  open  your  mouth,  pin  back 
your  ears  and  in  go  pickles,  red  cabbage,  Dutch 
cheese.  It's  insanity,  Marny,  and  it's  vulgar.  No 
man's  epigastric  can  stand  it.  It  wouldn't  make  any 
difference  if  you  were  a  kangaroo  with  your  pouch 
on  the  outside,  but  you're  a  full-grown  man  and  ought 
to  have  some  common-sense." 

"  And  you  think  that  if  I  followed  your  idiotic 
theory  it  would  keep  me  out  of  my  coffin,  do  you  ? 
What  you  want,  Joppy,  is  a  square  meal.  You  never 
had  one,  so  far  as  I  can  find  out,  since  you  were 
born.  You  drank  sterilized  milk  at  blood  tempera- 
ture until  you  were  five;  chewed  patent,  unhulled 
wheat  bread  until  you  were  ten,  and  since  that  time 

169 


SAM   JOPLIN'S   EPIGASTEIC    NEEVE 

you've  filled  jour  stomach  with  husks — proteids,  and 
carbohydrates,  and  a  lot  of  such  truck — isn't  that 
what  he  calls  em,  Pudfut  ?  " 

The  Englishman  nodded  in  assent.. 

"  And  now  just  look  at  you,  Joppy,  instead  of  a 
forty-inch  chest " 

"  And  a  sixty-inch  waist,"  interjected  Joplin  with 
a  laugh,  pointing  at  Marny's  waistcoat. 

"  I  acknowledge  it,  old  man,  and  I'm  proud  of  it," 
retorted  Mamy,  patting  his  rotundity.  "  Instead,  I 
say,  of  a  decent  chest  your  shoulders  crowd  your 
breast-bone ;  your  epigastric,  as  you  call  it — it's  your 
solar  plexus,  Joppy — but  that's  a  trifle  to  an  anato- 
mist like  you — your  epigastric  scrapes  your  back- 
bone, so  lonely  is  it  for  something  warm  and  digesti- 
ble to  rub  up  against,  and  your —  Why,  Joppy,  do 
you  know  when  I  look  at  you  and  think  over  your 
wasted  life,  my  eyes  fill  with  tears?  Eat  something 
solid,  old  man,  and  give  your  stomach  a  surprise. 
Begin  now.  Dinners  coming  up — I  smell  it.  Open 
your  port  nostril,  you  shrivelled  ^Tew  England  bean, 
and  take  in  the  aroma  of  beatific  pork  and  greens. 
Doesn't  that  put  new  life  into  you  ?  Puddy,  you  and 
Schonholz  help  Joppy  to  his  feet  and  one  or  two  of 
you  fellows  walk  behind  to  pick  up  the  pieces  in 
case  he  falls  apart  before  we  can  feed  him.  There's 
Tine's  dinner-bell !  " 

170 


SAM    JOPLIX'S   EPIGASTEIC    isTEEVE 

White-capped,  rosy-cheeked,  bare-armed  Tine  had 
rung  that  bell  for  this  group  of  painters  for  two 
years  past — ever  since  Mynheer  Boudier  of  the 
Bellevue  over  the  way,  who  once  claimed  her 
services,  had  reproved  Johann,  the  porter,  for  block- 
ing up  with  the  hotel  trunks  that  part  of  the  sidewalk 
over  which  the  steamboat  captain  slid  his  gangplank. 
Thereupon  Tine  slipped  her  pretty  little  feet  into  her 
white  sabots — she  and  Johann  have  been  called  in 
church  since — and  walked  straight  over  to  the  Hol- 
land Arms.  Johann  now  fights  the  steamboat  cap- 
tain, backed  not  only  by  the  landlord  of  the  Arms, 
who  rubs  his  hands  in  glee  over  the  possession  of  two 
of  his  competitor's  best  servants,  but  by  the  whole 
coterie  of  painters  whose  boots  Johann  blacks,  whose 
kits  he  packs  and  unpacks,  whose  errands  he  runs; 
while  Tine,  no  less  loyal  and  obliging,  darns  their 
stockings,  mends  their  clothes,  sews  on  buttons, 
washes  brushes,  stretches  canvases,  waits  on  table, 
rings  the  dinner-bell,  and  with  her  own  hands  scrubs 
every  square  inch  of  visible  surface  inside  and  out 
of  this  quaint  old  inn  in  this  sleepy  old  town  of  Dort- 
on-the-Maas — sidewalks,  windows,  cobbles — clear  to 
the  middle  of  the  street,  her  ruddy  arms  bare  to  the 
elbow,  her  sturdy,  blue-yarn-stockinged  legs  thrust 
into  snow-white  sabots  to  keep  her  trim  feet  from  the 
wet  and  slop. 

171 


SAM   JOPLIN'S   EPIGASTEIC    NEKVE 

Built  in  1620,  this  inn  of  the  Holland  Arms — so 
the  mildewed  brick  in  the  keystone  over  the  arch 
of  the  doorway  says — and  once  the  home  of  a  Dutch- 
man made  rich  by  the  China  trade,  whose  ships  cast 
anchor  where  Fop  Smit's  steamboats  now  tie  up  (I 
have  no  interest  in  the  Line)  ;  a  grimy,  green- 
moulded,  lean-over  front  and  moss-covered,  sloping- 
roof  sort  of  an  inn,  with  big  beams  supporting  the 
ceilings  of  the  bedrooms ;  lumbering  furniture  black- 
ened with  the  smoke  of  a  thousand  pipes  flanking  the 
walls  of  the  coffee-room;  bits  of  Delft  a  century  old 
lining  the  mantel;  tiny  panes  of  glass  with  here  and 
there  a  bull's-eye  illumining  the  squat  windows; 
rows  of  mugs  with  pewter  tops  crowding  the  narrow 
shelves  beside  the  fireplace,  and  last,  and  by  no  means 
least,  a  big,  bulky  sun-moon-and-stars  clock,  with  one 
eye  always  open,  which  strikes  the  hours  as  if  it  meant 
to  beat  the  very  life  out  of  them. 

But  there  is  something  more  in  this  coffee-room — 
something  that  neither  Mynheer  Boudier  of  the 
Bellevue  nor  any  other  landlord  in  any  other  hos- 
telry, great  or  small,  up  and  down  the  Maas,  can 
boast.  This  is  the  coffee-room  picture  gallery — free 
to  whoever  comes. 

It  began  with  a  contribution  from  the  first  impe- 
cunious painter  in  payment  of  an  overdue  board-bill, 
his  painting  being  hung  on  a  nail  beside  the  clock. 

172 


SAM   JOPLIN'S   EPIGASTRIC    NERVE 

Now ;  all  over  the  walls — above  the  sideboard  with  its 
pewter  plates  and  queer  mugs ;  over  the  mantel  hold- 
ing the  Delft,  and  between  the  squat  windows — are 
pinned,  tacked,  pasted  and  hung — singly  and  in 
groups — sketches  in  oil,  pastel,  water  color,  pencil 
and  charcoal,  many  without  frames  and  most  of  them 
bearing  the  signature  of  some  poor,  stranded  painter, 
preceded  by  the  suggestive  line,  "  To  my  dear  friend, 
the  landlord  " — silent  reminders  all  of  a  small  cash 
balance  which  circumstances  quite  beyond  their  con- 
trol had  prevented  their  liquidating  at  the  precise 
hour  of  their  departure. 

Mynheer  had  bowed  and  smiled  as  each  new  con- 
tribution was  handed  him  and  straightway  had  found 
a  hammer  and  a  nail  and  up  it  went  beside  its  fellows. 
He  never  made  objection :  the  more  the  merrier.  The 
ice  wind  would  soon  blow  across  the  Maas  from 
Papendrecht,  the  tall  grasses  in  the  marshes  turn 
pale  with  fright,  and  the  lace-frost  with  busy  fingers 
pattern  the  tiny  panes,  and  then  Johann  would  pack 
the  kits  one  after  another,  and  the  last  good-byes  take 
place.  But  the  sketches  would  remain.  Oh !  yes,  the 
sketches  would  remain  and  tell  the  story  of  the  sum- 
mer and  every  night  new  mugs  would  be  filled  around 
the  coal-fire,  and  new  pipes  lighted — mugs  and  pipes 
of  the  townspeople  this  time,  who  came  to  feast 
their   eyes, — and,   although  the  summer  was   gone, 

173 


SAM    JOPLIN'S    EPIGASTRIC    NERVE 

the  long  winter  would  still  be  his.     'No,  Mynheer 
never  objected! 

And  this  simple  form  of  settlement — a  note  of 
hand  (in  color ),  payable  in  yearly  patronage — has 
not  been  confined  to  modern  times.  Many  an  inn 
owes  its  survival  to  a  square  of  canvas — the  head  of 
a  child,  a  copper  pot,  or  stretch  of  dune;  and  more 
than  one  collector  now  boasts  of  a  masterpiece  which 
had  hung  for  years  on  some  taproom  wall,  a  sure  but 
silent  witness  of  the  poverty  of  a  Franz  Hals, 
Wouverman  or  Van  der  Heist. 

Each  year  had  brought  new  additions  to  the  im- 
pecunious group  about  Mynheer's  table. 

Dear  old  Marny,  with  his  big  boiler  amidships, 
his  round,  sunburned  face  shaded  by  a  wide-brimmed, 
slouch  hat — the  one  he  wore  when  he  lived  with  the 
Sioux  Indians — loose  red  tie  tossed  over  one  shoulder, 
and  rusty  velveteen  coat,  was  an  old  habitue.  And 
so  was  dry,  crusty  Malone,  "  the  man  from  Dublin," 
rough  outside  as  a  potato  and  white  inside  as  its 
meal.  And  so,  too,  was  Stebbins,  the  silent  man  of 
the  party,  and  the  only  listener  in  the  group.  All 
these  came  with  the  earliest  birds  and  stayed  until 
the  boys  got  out  their  skates. 

But  there  were  others  this  year  who  were  new. 
Pudfut,  the  Englishman,  first — in  from  Norway, 
where  he  had  been  sketching  on  board  some  lord's 

174 


SAM    JOPLIX'S    EPIGASTKIC    KERVE 

jacht — lie  of  the  grizzly  brown  beard,  brown  ulster 
reaching  to  his  toes,  gray-checked  steamer-cap  and 
brierwood  pipe — an  outfit  which  he  never  changed — 
"  slept  in  them,"  Marny  insisted. 

"  Me  name's  Pudfut,"  he  began,  holding  out  his 
hand  to  Marny.  "  I've  got  a  letter  in  my  clothes 
for  ye  from  a  chap  in  Paris." 

"  Don't  pull  it  out,"  had  come  the  answer. 
"  Put  it  there !  "  and  within  an  hour  the  breezy  fel- 
low, his  arm  through  the  Englishman's,  had  trotted 
him  all  over  Dort  from  the  Groote  Kerk  to  the  old 
Gate  of  William  of  Orange,  introducing  him  to  every 
painter  he  met  on  the  way,  first  as  Pudfut,  then  as 
Puddy,  then  as  Pretty-foot,  then  as  Tootsie-Wootsie, 
and  last  as  Toots — a  name  by  which  he  is  known  in 
the  Quartier  to  this  day.  This  done,  he  had  taken 
him  up  to  his  own  room  and  had  dumped  him  into 
an  extra  cot — his  for  the  rest  of  the  summer. 

Then  Schonholz  wTandered  in — five  gulden  a  week 
board  was  the  magnet — a  cheese-faced,  good-natured 
German  lad  with  forehead  so  high  that  when  he  raised 
his  hat  Marny  declared,  with  a  cry  of  alarm,  that 
his  scalp  had  slipped,  and  only  regained  his  peace 
of  mind  when  he  had  twisted  his  fat  fingers  in  the 
lad's  forelock  to  make  sure  that  it  was  still  fast. 
Schonholz  had  passed  a  year  at  Heidelberg  and  car- 
ried his  diploma  on  his  cheek — two  crisscross  slashes 

175 


SAM    JOPLISFS    EPIGASTKIC    NERVE 

that  had  never  healed — spoke  battered  English,  wore 
a  green  flat-topped  cap,  and  gray  bobtailed  coat  with 
two  rows  of  horn  buttons  ("  Come  to  shoot  chamois, 
have  you  \  "  Marny  had  asked  when  he  presented  his 
credentials.) — laughed  three-quarters  of  the  time 
he  was  awake,  and  never  opened  his  kit  or  set  a  palette 
while  he  was  in  Dort.  "  Too  vet  and  too  fodgy  ak 
dime/'  was  the  way  he  accounted  for  his  laziness. 

Last  came  Joplin — a  man  of  thirty-five ;  bald  as  an 
egg  and  as  shiny.  ("  Dangerous  to  have  a  hen 
around/'  Marny  would  say,  rubbing  the  pate  after 
the  manner  of  a  phrenologist.)  Gaunt,  wiry;  jerky 
in  his  movements  as  a  Yankee  clock  and  as  regular 
in  his  habits :  hot  water  when  he  got  up — two  glasses, 
sipped  slowly ;  cold  water  when  he  went  to  bed,  head 
first,  feet  next,  then  the  rest  of  him;  window  open 
all  night  no  matter  how  hard  it  blew  or  rained;  ate 
three  meals  a  day  and  no  more ;  chewed  every  mouth- 
ful of  food  thirty  times — coffee,  soup,  even  his  drink- 
ing-water (Gladstone  had  taught  him  that,  he 
boasted) — a  walking  laboratory  of  a  man,  who  knew 
it  all,  took  no  layman's  advice,  and  was  as  set  in  his 
ways  as  a  chunk  of  concrete. 

And  his  fads  did  not  stop  with  his  food;  they 
extended  to  his  clothes — everything  he  used,  in  fact. 
His  baggy  knickerbockers  ended  in  leather  leggins 
to  protect  his  pipe-stem  shanks;  his  shirts  buttoned 

176 


SAM    JOPLIX'S    EPIGASTRIC    NERVE 

all  the  way  down  in  front  and  went  on  like  a  coat ; 
he  wore  health  flannels  by  day  and  a  health  shirt  at 
night  ("  Just  like  my  old  Aunt  Margaret's  wrapper," 
]  whispered  Marny  in  a  stage  voice  to  Pudfut)  : 
sported  a  ninety-nine-cent  silver  watch  fastened  to  a 
leather  strap  (sometimes  to  a  piece  of  twine)  ;  stuck 
a  five-hundred-dollar  scarab  pin  in  his  necktie — 
"  Nothing  finer  in  the  Boston  Museum/'  he  main- 
tained, and  .told  the  truth — and  ever  and  always  enun- 
ciated an  English  so  pure  and  so  undented  that 
Stebbins,  after  listening  to  it  for  a  few  minutes,  pro- 
posed, with  an  irreverence  born  of  good-fellowship, 
that  a  subscription  be  started  to  have  Joplin' s  dialect 
phonographed  so  that  it  might  be  handed  down  to 
posterity  as  the  only  real  and  correct  thing. 

"  Are  you  noticing,  gentlemen,  the  way  in  which 
Joplin  handles  his  mother  tongue  ?  "  Stebbins  had 
shouted  across  the  table :  "  never  drops  his  '  g's,' 
never  slights  his  first  syllable ;  says  '  humor  '  with  an 
accent  on  the  '  ha.'  But  for  the  fact  that  he  pro- 
nounces '  bonnet '  *  hunnit '  and  '  admires  '  a  thing 
wmen  he  really  ought  only  to  l  like  '  it,  you  could 
never  discover  his  codfish  bringing  up.  Out  with 
your  wallets — how  much  do  you  chip  in  ? 9i 

These  peculiarities  soon  made  Joplin  the  storm- 
centre  of  every  discussion.  Xot  only  were  his  views 
on  nutrition  ridiculed,  but  all  his  fads  were  treated 

177 


SAM    JOPLIJSPS   EPIGASTRIC    NERVE 

with  equal  disrespect.  "  Impressionism/'  "  plein 
air,"  the  old  "  line  engraving "  in  contrast  to  the 
modern  "  half-tone  "  methods — any  opinion  of  Jop- 
lin's,  no  matter  how  sane  or  logical,  was  jostled,  sat 
on,  punched  in  the  ribs  and  otherwise  maltreated  until 
every  man  was  breathless  or  black  in  the  face  with 
assumed  rage — every  man  except  the  man  jostled,  who 
never  lost  his  temper  no  matter  what  the  provocation, 
and  who  always  came  up  smiling  with  some  such 
remark  as :  "  Smite  away,  you  Pharisees ;  harmony 
is  heavenly — but  stupid.  Keep  it  up — here's  the 
other  cheek !  " 

On  this  particular  night  Joplin,  as  I  have  said, 
had  broken  out  on  diet.  Some  movement  of  Marny's 
connected  with  the  temporary  relief  of  the  lower 
button  of  his  waistcoat  had  excited  the  great  Bos- 
tonian's  wrath.  The  men  were  seated  at  dinner 
inside  the  coffee-room,  Johann  and  Tine  serving. 

"  Yes,  Marny,  I'm  sorry  to  say  it,  but  the  fact  is 
you  eat  too  much  and  you  eat  the  wrong  things.  If 
you  knew  anything  of  the  kinds  of  food  necessary  to 
nourish  the  human  body,  you  would  know  that  it 
should  combine  in  proper  proportions  proteid,  fats, 
carbohydrates  and  a  small  percentage  of  inorganic 
salts — these  are  constantly  undergoing  oxidation  and 
at  the  same  time  are  liberating  energy  in  the  form  of 
heat," 

178 


SAM    JOPLIX'S   EPIGASTRIC    NEKVE 

"  Hear  the  bloody  bounder !  "  bawled  Pudf ut  from 
the  other  end  of  the  table. 

"  Silence !  "  called  Marny,  with  his  ear  cupped  in 
his  fingers,  an  expression  of  the  farthest-away-boy- 
in-the-class  on  his  face. 

Joplin  waved  his  hand  in  protest  and  continued, 
without  heeding  the  interruption :  "  Xow,  if  you're 
stupid  enough  to  stuff  your  epigastrium  with  pork, 
you,  of  course,  get  an  excess  of  non-nitrogenous  fats, 
and  in  order  to  digest  anything  properly  you  must 
necessarily  cram  in  an  additional  quantity  of  carbo- 
hydrates— greens,  potatoes,  cabbage — whatever  Tine 
shoves  under  your  nose.  Consult  any  scientist  and 
see  if  I  am  not  right — especially  the  German  doctors 
who  have  made  a  specialty  of  nutrition.  Such  men 
as  Fugel,  Beenheim  and " 

Here  a  slice  of  Tine's  freshly-cut  bread  made  a 
line-shot,  struck  the  top  of  Joplin's  scalp,  caromed  on 
Schonholz's  shirt-front  and  fell  into  Stebbins's  lap, 
followed  instantly  by  "  Order,  gentlemen !  "  from 
llarny.  "  Don't  waste  that  slab  of  proteid.  The 
learned  Bean  is  most  interesting  and  should  not  be 
Interrupted." 

"  Better  out  than  in,"  continued  Joplin,  brushing 
the  crumbs  from  his  plate.  "  Bread — fresh  bread 
particularly — is  the  very  worst  thing  a  man  can  put 
into  his  stomach." 

179 


SAM    JOPLIN'S   EPIGASTKIC    NERVE 

"  And  how  about  pertaties  ?  "  shouted  Malone.  "  I 
s'pose  ye'd  rob  us  of  the  only  thing  that's  kep'  us 
alive  as  a  nation,  wouldn't  ye  \  " 

"  I  certainly  would,  'Loney,  except  in  very  small 
quantities.  Raw  potatoes  contain  twenty-two  per 
cent,  of  the  worst  form  of  non-nitrogenous  food,  and 
seventy-eight  per  cent,  of  water.  You,  Malone,  with 
your  sedentary  habits,  should  never  touch  an  ounce 
of  potato.  It  excites  the  epigastric  nerve  and  induces 
dyspepsia.  You're  as  lazy  as  the  devil  and  should 
only  eat  nitrogenous  food  and  never  in  excess.  What 
you  require  is  about  one  hundred  grams  of  protein, 
giving  you  a  fuel  value  of  twenty-seven  hundred  calo- 
ries, and  to  produce  this  fifty-five  ounces  of  food  a 
day  is  enough.  When  you  exceed  this  you  run  to 
flesh — unhealthy  bloat  really — and  in  the  wrong 
places.  You've  only  to  look  at  Marny's  sixty-inch 
waist-line  to  prove  the  truth  of  this  theory.  Now  look 
at  me — I  keep  my  figure,  don't  I  ?  Not  a  bad  one  for 
a  light-weight,  is  it  ?  I'm  in  perfect  health,  can  run, 
.jump,  eat,  sleep,  paint,  and  but  for  a  slight  organic 
weakness  with  my  heart,  which  is  hereditary  in  my 
family  and  which  kills  most  of  us  off  at  about  seventy 
years  of  age,  I'm  as  sound  as  a  nut.  And  all — all, 
let  me  tell  you,  due  to  my  observing  a  few  scientific 
laws  regarding  hygiene  which  you  men  never  seem 
to  have  heard  of." 

180 


o 

-4-> 

Pn 

=3 


o 

c/3 


SO 


E- 


so 


— 

O 


.  ,  ,         «« * 


SAM    JOPLDs'S    EPIGASTEIC    NERVE 

Malone  now  rose  to  his  feet,  pewter  mug  in  hand, 
and  swept  his  eye  around  the  table. 

"  Bedad,  you're  right,  Joppy,"  he  said  with  a  wink 
at  Marny — "  food's  the  ruination  of  us  all ;  drink 
is  what  we  want.  On  yer  feet,  gintlemen — every 
mother's  son  of  ye!  Here's  to  the  learned,  livin' 
skeleton  from  Boston!  Five  per  cint.  man  and 
ninety-five  per  cint.  crank !  " 


II 

The  next  morning  the  group  of  painters — all  except 
Joplin,  who  was  doing  a  head  in  "  smears  "  behind 
the  Groote  Kerk  a  mile  away — weie  at  work  in  the 
old  shipyard  across  the  Maas  at  Papendrecht.  Marny 
was  painting  a  Dutch  lugger  with  a  brown-madder 
hull  and  an  emerald-green  stern,  up  on  the  ways  for 
repairs.  Pudfut  had  the  children  of  the  Captain 
posed  against  a  broken  windlass  rotting  in  the  tall 
grass  near  the  dock,  and  Malone  and  Schonholz,  pipe 
in  mouth,  were  on  their  backs  smoking.  "  It  wasn't 
their  kind  of  a  mornin',"  Malone  had  said. 

Joplin's  discourse  the  night  before  was  evidently 
lingering  in  their  minds,  for  Pudfut  broke  out  with : 
"  Got  to  sit  on  Joppy  some  way  or  we'll  be  talked  to 
death,"  and  he  squeezed  a  tube  of  color  on  his  palette. 
"  Getting  to  be  a  bloody  nuisance." 

181 


SAM   JOPLIN'S   EPIGASTKIC    NERVE 

"  Only  one  way  to  fix  him,"  remarked  Stebbins, 
picking  up  his  mahlstick  from  the  grass  beside  him. 

"  How  ?  "  came  a  chorus. 

"  Scare  him  to  death.'7 

The  painters  laid  down  their  brushes.  Stebbins 
rarely  expressed  an  opinion ;  any  utterance  from  him, 
therefore,  carried  weight. 

"  Go  for  him  about  his  health,  I  tell  you,"  con- 
tinued Stebbins,  dragging  a  brush  from  the  sheaf 
in  his  hand. 

"  But  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  him,"  an- 
swered Marny.  "  He's  as  skinny  as  a  coal-mine 
mule,  but  he's  got  plenty  of  kick  in  him  yet." 

"  You're  dead  right,  Marny,"  answered  Stebbins, 
"but  he  doesn't  think  so.  He's  as  big  a  fool  over 
every  little  pain  as  he  is  over  his  theories." 

"  Mver  cracked  his  jaw  to  me  about  it,"  sput- 
tered Malone  from  between  the  puffs  of  his  pipe. 

"  No,  and  he  won't.  I  don't  jump  on  him  as 
you  fellows  do  and  so  I  get  his  confidence.  He's 
in  my  room  two  or  three  times  every  night  going 
over  his  symptoms.  When  his  foot's  asleep  he  thinks 
he's  got  creeping  paralysis.  Every  time  his  breath 
comes  short,  his  heart's  giving  out." 

"  That's  hereditary!  "  said  Marny;  "lie  said  so." 

"  Hereditary  be  hanged !  Same  with  everything 
else.     Last  night  he  dug  me  out  of  bed  and  wanted 

182 


SAM   JOPLIX'S   EPIGASTRIC    XERVE 

me  to  count  his  pulse — thought  it  intermitted.     He'a 
hipped,  I  tell  you,  on  his  health !  " 

"  That's  because  he  lives  on  nothing,"  rejoined 
Marny.  "  Tine  puts  the  toast  in  the  oven  over  night 
so  it  will  be  dry  enough  for  him  in  the  morning — 
she  told  me  so  yesterday.  Xow  he's  running  on  sour 
milk  and  vinegar — '  blood  too  alkaline/  he  says — got 
a  chalky  taste  in  his  mouth !  " 

"  Well,  whatever  it  is,  he's  a  rum-nuisance,"  said 
Pudfut,  "  and  he  ought  to  be  jumped  on." 

"  Yes,"  retorted  Stebbins,  "  but  not  about  his  food. 
Jump  on  him  about  his  health,  then  he'll  kick  back 
and  in  pure  obstinacy  begin  to  think  he's  well — that's 
his  nature." 

"  Don't  you  do  anything  of  the  kind,"  protested 
Marny.  "  Joppy's  all  right — best  lad  I  know.  Let 
him  talk ;  doesn't  hurt  anybody  and  keeps  everything 
alive.  A  little  hot  air  now  and  then  helps  his 
epigastric." 

Malone  and  Schonholz  had  raised  themselves  on 
their  elbows,  twisted  their  shoulders  and  had  put 
their  heads  together — literally — without  lifting  their 
lazy  bodies  from  the  warm,  dry  grass — so  close  that 
one  slouch  hat  instead  of  two  might  have  covered 
their  conspiring  brains.  From  under  the  rims  of 
these  thatches  came  smothered  laughs  and  such  unin- 


telligible mutterings  as: 


183 


SAM   JOPLIN'S   EPIGASTRIC   JSTEEVE 

"  Dot's  de  vay,  by  chimminy,  'Loney !     And  den 


73 


"  JSTo,  begorra !    Let  me  have  a  crack  at  him  f  u'st !  " 

"  JSTo,  I  vill  before  go  and  yon  come " 

"  Not  a  word  to  Marny,  remimber ;  he'd  give  it 

away " 

"  Yes,  but  we  vill  tell  Poodf  nt  und  Sthebbins,  eh  %  " 
That  afternoon  the  diabolical  plot  was  put  in 
motion.  The  men  had  finished  for  the  day;  had 
crossed  the  ferry  and  had  found  Joplin  wandering 
around  the  dock  looking  for  a  new  subject.  The 
Groote  Kerk  "  smear  "  was  under  his  arm. 

Pudfut,  under  pretence  of  inspecting  the  smear — 
a  portrait  of  the  old  Sacristan  on  a  bench  in  front  of 
the  main  entrance — started  back  in  surprise  on  seeing 
the  Bostonian,  and  asked  with  an  anxious  tone  in 
his  voice: 

"  Aren't  you  well,  old  man  ?  Look  awfully  yellow 
about  the  gills.  Worked  too  hard,  haven't  you  ?  No 
use  overdoing  it." 

"  Well  ?  Of  course  I'm  well !  Sound  as  a  nut. 
Little  bilious,  maybe,  but  that's  nothing.    Why  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing !  Must  say,  though,  you  gave  me  a 
twist  when  I  came  on  you  suddenly.  Maybe  it's  your 
epigastric  nerve ;  maybe  it's  your  liver  and  will  pass 
off,  but  I'd  knock  off  work  for  a  day  or  two  if  I  were 
you." 

184 


SAM   JOPLIN'S    EPIGASTRIC    NERVE 

Malone  now  took  a  hand. 

"  Let  me  carry  yer  kit,  loppy,  ye  look  done  up. 
What's  happened  to  ye,  man,  since  mornin'  ?  " 

"  Never  felt  better  in  my  life,"  protested  Joplin  (* 
"  No,  I'll  carry  it — not  heavy " 

Then  he  quickened  his  pace — they  were  all  on  their 
way  back  to  the  inn — and  overtook  Stebbins  and 
Schonholz. 

"  Stebbins,  old  man " 

"  Yes,  Joppy." 

"  What  I  told  you  last  night  is  turning  out  just 
as  I  expected.  Heart's  been  acting  queer  all  morn- 
ing and  my  epigastric  nerve  is  very  sensitive.  Puddy 
says  I  look  awful.    Do  you  see  it  ?  " 

Stebbins  looked  into  the  Bostonian's  face,  hesi- 
tated, and  said  with  an  apologetic  tone  in  his  voice: 

"  Well,  everybody  looks  better  one  time  than  an- 
other.   You've  been  working  too  hard,  maybe." 

"But  do  I  look  yellow?" 

"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Joppy,  you  do — yel- 
low as  a  gourd — not  always,  just  now  and  then  when 
you  walk  fast  or  run  upstairs." 

"  I've  been  afraid  of  that.  Was  my  pulse  all  right 
when  you  counted  it  last  night  ?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly — skipped  a  beat  now  and  then, 
but  that's  nothing.  I  had  an  uncle  once  who  had  a 
pulse  that  wobbled  like  that.    He,  of  course,  went  off 

185 


SAM   JOPLIN'S    EPIGASTRIC    NERVE 

suddenly;  some  said  it  was  apoplexy;  some  said  it 
was  his  heart — these  doctors  never  agree.  I  wouldn't 
worry  about  it,  old  man.  Hold  on,  Pudfut,  don't 
walk  so  fast." 

Pudfut  held  on,  and  so  did  Schonholz  and  Malone, 
and  then  the  four  slipped  behind  a  pile  of  oil  barrels 
and  concentrated  their  slouch  hats  and  Schonholz 
slapped  his  thigh  and  said  with  a  smothered  laugh 
that  it  was  "  sphlendeed !  "  and  Malone  and  Pudfut 
agreed,  and  then  the  three  locked  arms  and  went 
singing  up  the  street,  their  eyes  on  Joplin's  pipe- 
stem  legs  as  he  trotted  beside  Marny  on  his  way  to 
the  inn. 

When  the  party  reached  the  coffee-room  Marny 
called  Tine  to  his  side,  spread  out  the  fingers  and 
thumb  of  one  hand,  and  that  rosy-cheeked  lass  with- 
out the  loss  of  a  second,  clattered  over  to  the  little 
shelf,  gathered  up  five  empty  mugs  and  disappeared 
down  the  cellar  steps.  This  done  the  coterie  drew 
their  chairs  to  one  of  Tine's  hand-scrubbed  tables 
and  sat  down,  all  but  Joplin,  who  kept  on  his  way  to 
his  room.  There  the  Bostonian  remained,  gazing  out 
of  the  window  until  Johann  had  banged  twice  on  his 
door  in  announcement  of  dinner.  Then  he  joined  the 
others. 

When  all  were  seated  Schonholz  made  a  statement 
which  was  followed  with  results  more  astounding  to 

186 


SAM    JOPLIN'S    EPIGASTKIC    KEEVE 

the  peace  of  the  coterie  than  anything  which  had 
occurred  since  the  men  came  together. 

"  I  haf  bad  news,  boys/'  he  began,  "  offle  bad  news. 
Mine  fader  has  wrote  dat  home  I  must.  Nod  anuder 
mark  he  say  vill  he  gif  me.  Eef  I  could  sell  some- 
dings — but  dat  ees  very  seldom.  Xo,  Marny,  you 
don't  can  lend  me  noddings.  "What  vill  yourselluf 
do?    Starve!" 

"  Where  do  you  live,  Schonholz  ?  "  asked  Joplin. 

"  By  Fizzenbad." 

"  What  kind  of  a  place  is  it — baths  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  are  they  good  for  ?  "  continued  Joplin  in 
a  subdued  tone. 

"  Xoddings,  but  blenty  peoples  go." 

"  I  can  tell  you,  Joppy,"  said  Pudfut  gravely, 
with  a  wink  at  Malone.  "  There  are  two  spas,  both 
highly  celebrated.  Lord  Ellenboro  spent  a  month 
there  and  came  back  looking  like  another  man.  One 
is  for  the  liver  and  the  other  for  something  or  othei 
I  can't  recollect  what." 

"  Heart  ?  "  asked  Joplin. 

"  I  don't  know." 

He  didn't, — had  never  heard  the  place  mentioned 
until  Schonholz  had  called  its  name  a  moment  before. 

Joplin  played  with  his  knife  and  made  an  attempt 
to  nibble  a  slice  of  Tine's  toast,  but  he  made  no  reply. 

187 


SAM   JOPLIN'S   EPIGASTKIC    NEKVE 

All  the  fight  of  every  kind  seemed  to  have  been 
knocked  out  of  him. 

"  Better  take  Fizzenbad  in,  Joppy,"  remarked 
Pudfut  in  an  undertone.  "  May  do  you  a  lot  of 
good." 

"  How  far  is  it,  Schonholz  ? "  asked  Joplin,  ignor- 
ing the  Englishman's  suggestion. 

"  Oh,  you  leafe  in  de  morgen  and  you  come  by 
Eizzenbad  in  a  day  more  as  de  one  you  go  oud  mid." 

"  No— can't  afford  it." 

Here  Joplin  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  with  the 
remark  that  he  thought  he  would  go  downtown  for 
some  colors,  left  the  room. 

"  It's  working  like  a  dose  of  salts,"  cried  Pudfut 
when  the  Bostonian  was  out  of  hearing.  "  Hasn't 
said  '  epigastric  nerve,'  '  gram  '  or  '  proteids  '  once. 
Got  real  human  in  an  hour.  Stebbins,  you're  a 
wonder." 

The  next  morning  everybody  was  up  bright  and 
early  to  see  Schonholz  off.  One  of  Fop  Smit's  packets 
was  to  leave  for  Eotterdam  at  seven  and  Schonholz 
was  a  passenger.  He  could  go  by  rail,  but  the  boat 
was  cheaper.  No  deceptions  had  been  practised  and 
no  illusions  indulged  in  as  to  the  cause  of  his  depar- 
ture. He  had  had  his  supplies  cut  off,  was  flat  broke 
and  as  helpless  as  a  plant  without  water.  They  had 
all,  at  one  time  or  another,  passed  through  a  similar 

188 


SAAI   JOPLIX'S    EPIGASTRIC    XERVE 

crisis  and  knew  exactly  what  it  meant.  A  purse,  of 
course,  could  have  been  made  up — ALarny  even  in- 
sisted on  sharing  his  last  hundred  francs  with  him — 
and  Mynheer  would  have  allowed  the  board-bill  to 
run  on  indefinitely  with  or  without  an  addition  to 
his  collection,  but  the  lad  was  not  built  along  those 
lines. 

"  Xo — I  go  home  and  help  mine  fader  once  a  leetle, 
den  maybe  I  come  back,  don't  it  %  "  was  the  way  he 
put  it. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  procession  formed  to 
escort  him  through  the  Old  Gate,  every  man  answered 
to  his  name  except  Joplin — he  had  either  overslept 
himself  or  was  taking  an  extra  soak  in  his  portable 
tub. 

"  Rim,  Tine,  and  call  Mr.  Joplin,"  cried  llarny — 
"  we'll  go  ahead.    Tell  him  to  come  to  the  dock." 

Away  clattered  the  sabots  up  the  steep  stairs,  and 
away  they  scurried  down  the  bare  corridor  to  Jop- 
lin's  room.  There  Tine  knocked.  Hearing  no  re- 
sponse she  pushed  open  the  door  and  looked  in.  The 
room  was  empty !  Then  she  noticed  that  the  bed  had 
not  been  slept  in,  nor  had  anything  on  the  washstand 
been  used.  Stepping  in  softly  for  some  explanation 
of  the  unusual  occurrence — no  such  thing  had  ever 
happened  in  her  experience,  not  unless  she  had  been 
•\otified  in  advance — her  eye  rested  on  a  letter  ad* 

189 


SAM    JOPLIN'S    EPIGASTKIC    NEKVE 

iressed  to  Stebbins  propped  up  in  full  view  against  a 
oook  on  Joplin's  table.  Catching  it  up  as  offering 
the  only  explanation  of  his  unaccountable  disappear- 
ance, she  raced  downstairs  and,  crossing  the  cobbles 
on  a  run,  laid  the  letter  in  Stebbins's  hand. 

"  For  me,  Tine  ?  " 

The  girl  nodded,  her  eyes  on  the  painter's. 

The  painter  broke  the  seal  and  his  face  grew 
serious.  Then  he  beckoned  to  Marny  and  read  the 
contents  aloud,  the  others  crowding  close: 

Dear  Stebbins: 

Keep  my  things  until  I  send  for  them.  I  take  the  night  train 
for  Rotterdam.  Tell  Schonholz  I'll  join  him  there  and  go  on 
with  him  to  Fizzenbad.  Sorry  to  leave  this  way,  but  I  could 
not  bear  to  bid  you  all  good-by.  Joplin. 


Ill 


That  night  the  table  was  one  prolonged  uproar. 
The  conspirators  had  owned  up  frankly  to  their  share 
of  the  villany,  and  were  hard  at  work  concocting 
plans  for  its  undoing.  Marny  was  the  one  man  in 
the  group  that  would  not  be  pacified;  nothing  that 
either  Pudfut,  Stebbins  or  Malone  had  said  or  could 
say  changed  his  mind — and  the  discussion,  which  had 
lasted  all  day,  brought  him  no  peace. 

"  Drove  him  out ! — that's  what  you  did,  you  bull- 

190 


SAM    JOPLIX'S    EPIGASTRIC    XERYE 

headed  Englishman — you  and  Malone  and  Stebbins 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourselves.  If  I  had  known 
what  you  fellows  were  up  to  I'd  have  pitched  you  all 
over  the  dike.  Cost  Joppy  a  lot  of  money  and  break 
up  all  his  summer  work !  What  did  you  want  to  guy 
him  like  that  for  and  send  him  off  to  be  scalded  and 
squirted  on  in  a  damned  Dutch " 

"  But  we  didn't  think  he'd  take  it  as  hard  a& 
that." 

"  You  didn't,  didn't  you !  What  did  you  think 
he'd  do  ?  Didn't  vou  see  how  sensitive  and  nervous 
he  was  ?  The  matter  with  you  fellows  is  that  Joppy 
is  a  thoroughbred  and  you  never  saw  one  of  his  kind 
in  your  life.  Ever  since  he  got  here  you've  done 
nothing  but  jump  all  over  him  and  try  to  rile  him, 
and  he  never  squawked  once — came  up  smiling  every 
time.    He's  a  thoroughbred — that's  what  he  is ! ': 

The  days  that  followed  were  burdened  with  a  sad- 
ness the  coterie  could  not  shake  off.  Whatever  they 
had  laughed  at  and  derided  in  Joplin  they  now  longed 
for.  The  Bostonian  may  have  been  a  nuisance  in  one 
way,  but  he  had  kept  the  ball  of  conversation  rolling 
— had  started  it  many  times — and  none  of  the  others 
could  fill  his  place.  Certain  of  his  views  became  re- 
spected. "  As  dear  old  Joppy  used  to  say,"  was  a 
common  expression,  and  "  By  Jove,  he  was  right !  ': 
not  an  uncommon  opinion.     In  conformity  with  his 

191 


SAM    JOPLIN'S   EPIGASTRIC    NERVE 

teachings,  Marny  reduced  his  girth  measure  an  inch 
and  his  weight  two  pounds — not  much  for  Marny, 
but  extraordinary  all  the  same  when  his  appetite  was 
considered. 

-  Pudfut,  in  contrition  of  his  offence,  wrote  his  Eng- 
lish friend  Lord  Something-or-other,  who  owned  the 
yacht,  and  who  was  at  Carlsbad,  begging  him  to  run 
up  and  see  the  "  best  ever  "  and  "  one  of  us  " — and 
Malone  never  lost  an  opportunity  to  say  how  quick  he 
was  in  repartee,  or  how  he  missed  him.  Stebbins 
kept  his  mouth  shut. 

He  had  started  the  crusade,  he  knew,  and  was 
personally  responsible  for  the  result.  He  had  tried 
to  arouse  Joplin's  obstinacy  and  had  only  aroused  his 
fears.  All  he  could  do  in  reparation  was  to  keep  in 
touch  with  the  exile  and  pave  the  way  for  his  home- 
coming. If  Joppy  was  ill,  which  he  doubted,  some 
of  the  German  experts  in  whom  the  Bostonian  be- 
lieved would  find  the  cause  and  the  remedy.  If  he 
was  "  sound  as  a  nut,"  to  quote  Joplin's  own  words, 
certainty  of  that  fact,  after  an  exhaustive  examina- 
tion by  men  he  trusted,  would  relieve  his  nervous 
mind  and  make  him  all  the  happier. 

The  first  letter  came  from  Schonholzo  Liberally 
translated,  with  the  assistance  of  Mynheer,  who  spoke 
a  little  German,  it  conveyed  the  information  that  the 
Bostonian,  after  being  put  on  a  strict  diet,  had  been 

192 


SAM    JOPLIX'S   EPIGASTKIC    NERVE 

douched,  pounded  and  rubbed;  was  then  on  his  sec- 
ond week  of  treatment;  had  one  more  to  serve;  was 
at  the  moment  feeling  like  a  fighting-cock,  and  after 
a  fifth  week  at  Stiickbad,  in  the  mountains,  where 
he  was  to  take  the  after-cure,  would  be  as  strong  as 
a  three-year-old,  and  as  frisky. 

The  second  letter  was  from  Joplin  himself  and 
was  addressed  to  Stebbins.  This  last  was  authentic, 
and  greatly  relieved  the  situation.     It  read: 

Nothing  like  a  thoroughly  trained  expert,  my  dear  Stebbins. 
These  German  savants  fill  me  with  wonder.  The  moment  Dr. 
Stiiffen  fixed  his  eyes  upon  me  he  read  my  case  like  an  open 
book.  No  nitrogenous  food  of  any  kind,  was  his  first  verdict;  hot 
douches  and  complete  rest  packed  in  wet  compresses,  the  next. 
I  am  losing  flesh,  of  course,  but  it  is  only  the  "  dead  wood"  of  the 
body,  so  to  speak.  This  Dr.  Stiiffen  expects  to  replace  with  new 
shoots — predicts  I  will  weigh  forty  pounds  more — a  charming  and, 
to  me,  a  most  sane  theory.  You  will  be  delighted  also  to  hear 
tiaat  my  epigastric  nerve  hasn't  troubled  me  since  I  arrived. 
Love  to  the  boys,  whom  I  expect  to  see  before  the  month  is  out. 

Joppy. 

"  Forty  pounds  heavier !  "  cried  Marny  from  his 
end  of  the  table.  "  He'll  look  like  a  toy  balloon  in 
knee  pants.  Bully  for  Joppy!  I  wouldn't  let  any 
Schweizerkase  with  a  hot  douche  get  within  a  hun- 
dred yards  of  me,  but  then  I'm  not  a  bunch  of  nerves 
like  Joppy.  Anyhow,  boys,  we'll  give  the  lad  a  wel- 
come that  will  raise  the  roof.  Joppy  thin  was  pretty 
good  fun,  but  Joppy  fat  will  be  a  roaring  farce." 

193 


SAM    JOPLIN'S   EPIGASTKIC    NERVE 

And  so  it  was  decided,  and  at  once  all  sorts  ana 
kinds  of  welcomes  were  discussed,  modified,  rear- 
ranged and  discussed  again.  Pudfut  suggested  meet- 
ing him  in  Rotterdam  and  having  a  night  of  it. 
Malone  thought  of  chartering  a  steam  launch,  hiring 
a  band  and  bringing  him  past  the  towns  with  flags 
flying.  Stebbins  and  Marny  favored  some  demon- 
stration nearer  home,  where  everybody  could  join  in. 

The  programme  finally  agreed  upon  included  a 
pathway  of  boughs  strewn  with  wild  flowers  from  the 
steamboat  landing,  across  the  planking,  over  the  cob- 
bles, under  the  old  Gate  of  William  of  Orange,  and 
so  on  to  the  door  of  the  inn ;  the  appointment  of  Tine, 
dressed  in  a  Zeeland  costume  belonging  to  her  grand- 
mother, as  special  envoy,  to  meet  him  with  a  wreath 
of  laurel,  and  Johann  in  short  clothes — also  heir- 
looms— was  to  walk  by  his  side  as  First  Groom  of  the 
Bed  Chamber. 

The  real  Reception  Committee,  consisting  of 
Mynheer  in  a  burgomaster  suit  borrowed  from  a 
friend,  and  the  four  painters — Marny  as  a  Dutch 
Falstaff,  Pudfut  as  a  Spanish  Cavalier,  Stebbins  got 
up  as  a  Night  Watch,  and  Malone  in  the  costume 
of  a  Man-at-Arms — all  costumes  loaned  for  the  occa- 
sion by  the  antiquary  in  the  next  street — were  to 
await  Joplin's  coming  in  the  privacy  of  the  Gate — 
almost  a  tunnel — and  so  close  to  the  door  of  the  inn 

194 


SAM   JOPLIX'S    EPIGASTRIC    KEEVE 

that  it  might  have  passed  for  a  part  of  the  establish- 
ment itself. 

Meantime  the  four  painters  were  to  collect 
material  for  the  decoration  of  the  coffee-room — 
wreaths  of  greens  over  the  mantel  and  festoons  of  ivy 
hanging  down  the  back  of  Joplin's  chair  being  promi- 
nent features ;  while  Mynheer,  Tine  and  Johann  were 
to  concentrate  their  energies  in  preparing  a  dinner 
the  like  of  which  had  never  been  eaten  since  the 
sluiceways  in  the  dikes  drowned  out  the  Spanish 
duke.  Xot  a  word  of  all  this,  of  course,  had  reached 
the  ears  of  the  Bostonian.  Half,  three-quarters,  if 
not  all,  the  enjoyment  of  the  occasion  would  be 
realized  when  they  looked  on  Joplin's  face  and  read 
his  surprise. 

IV 

The  eventful  day  at  last  arrived.  Stebbins,  as  pre- 
arranged, had  begged  the  exile  to  telegraph  the  exact 
hour  of  his  departure  and  mode  of  travel  from  Rot- 
terdam, suggesting  the  boat  as  being  by  far  the  best, 
and  Joplin  had  answered  in  return  that  Pop  Smit's 
packet,  due  at  sundown  the  following  day,  would 
count  him  among  its  passengers. 

The  deep  tones  of  the  whistle  off  Papendrecht  sent 
every  man  to  his  post,  the  villagers  standing  back  in 

195 


SAM   JOPLIN'S   EPIGASTEIC    NEKVE 

amazement  at  the  extraordinary  spectacle,  especially 
at  Tine  and  Jokann  in  their  queer  clothes,  who,  be- 
ing instantly  recognized,  were  plied  with  questions. 

The  boat  slowed  down;  made  fast;  out  came  the 
gangplank;  ashore  went  the  little  two-wheel  carts 
drawn  by  the  sleepy,  tired  dogs;  then  the  baskets  of 
onions  were  rolled  off,  and  the  few  barrels  of  freight, 
and  then  two  or  three  passengers — among  them  a 
small,  feeble  man,  in  a  long  coat  reaching  to  his 
heels — made  their  way  to  the  dock. 

No  JoppyU 

"  That's  the  last  man  to  come  ashore  here,"  said 
Marny.     "  What's  become  of  the  lad  ?  " 

"  Maybe  he's  gone  aft,"  cried  Stebbins ;  "  may- 
be  " 

Here  Tine  gave  a  little  scream,  dropped  her  wreath 
and  running  toward  the  small,  feeble  man,  threw 
her  arms  around  his  neck,  Marny  and  the  others 
bounded  over  the  cobbles,  tossing  the  bystanders  out 
of  the  way  as  they  forged  ahead.  When  they  reached 
Joplin  he  was  still  clinging  to  Tine,  his  sunken 
cheeks  and  hollow  deep-set  eyes  telling  only  too 
plainly  how  great  an  effort  he  was  making  to  keep  on 
his  legs.  The  four  painters  formed  a  close  bodyguard 
and  escorted  their  long-lost  brother  to  the  inn. 

Mynheer,  in  his  burgomaster  suit,  met  the  party 
it  the  door,  conducted  them  inside  and  silently  drew 

196 


SAM   JOPLBFS   EPIGASTRIC   NERVE 

out  the  chairs  at  the  coffee-room  table.     He  was  too 
overcome  to  speak. 

Joplin  dropped  into  the  one  hung  with  ivy  and 
rested  his  hands  on  the  table. 

"  Lord !  how  good  it  is  to  get  here !  "  he  said, 
gazing  about  him,  a  tremble  in  his  voice.  "  You  don't 
know  what  I've  gone  through,  boys." 

"  Why,  we  thought  you  were  getting  fat,  Joppy," 
burst  out  Marny  at  last.  Up  to  this  time  his  voice, 
like  that  of  the  others,  seemed  to  have  left  him,  so 
great  was  his  surprise  and  anxiety. 

Joplin  waved  his  forefinger  toward  Marny  in  a 
deprecatory  way,  as  if  the  memory  of  his  experience 
was  too  serious  for  discussion,  played  with  his  fork 
a  moment,  and  said  slowly: 

"  Will  you  lay  it  up  against  me,  fellows,  if  I  tell 
you  the  truth?  I'm  not  as  strong  as  I  was  and  a 
good  deal  of  the  old  fight  is  out  of  me." 

"  Lay  up  nothin' !  "  cried  Malone.  "  And  when  it 
comes  to  fightin'  ye  kin  count  on  me  every " 

"  Dry  up !  "  broke  in  Marny.  "  You're  way  off, 
Malone.  No,  Joppy,  not  a  man  here  will  open  his 
head :  say  the  rest." 

"  Well,  then,  listen,"  continued  the  Bostonian.  "  I 
did  everything  they  told  me:  got  up  at  daylight; 
walked  around  the  spring  seven  times;  sipped  the 
water;  ate  what  they  prescribed;  lay  in  wet  sheets 

197 


SAM    JOPLIN'S    EPIGASTEIC    KEKVE 

two  hours  every  day;  was  kneaded  by  a  man  with  a 
chest  as  hairy  as  a  satyr's  and  arms  like  a  black- 
smith's ;  stood  up  and  was  squirted  at ;  had  everything 
about  me  looked  into — even  stuck  needles  in  my  arm 
for  a  sample  of  my  blood;  and  at  the  end  of  three 
weeks  was  so  thin  that  my  trousers  had  to  be  lapped 
over  in  the  back  under  a  leather  strap  to  keep  them 
above  my  hips,  and  my  coat  hung  down  as  if  it  were 
ashamed  of  me.  Doctor  Stuffen  then  handed  me  a 
•certificate  and  his  bill.  This  done  he  stood  me  up 
and  repeated  this  formula — has  it  printed — all 
languages : 

"  '  You  have  now  thrown  from  vour  svstem  every 

particle  of  foul  tissues,  Mr. ,  ah,  yes — Mr.  Job- 

lin,  I  believe.'  And  he  looked  at  the  paper.  '  You 
thought  you  were  reasonably  fat,  Mr.  Joblin.  You 
were  not  fat,  you  were  merely  bloated.  Go  now  to 
Stiickbad  for  two  weeks.  There  you  will  take  the 
after-cure;  keep  strictly  to  the  diet,  a  list  of  which 
I  now  hand  you.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time  you 
will  be  a  strong  man.  Thank  you — my  secretary  will 
send  you  a  receipt.' 

"  Well,  I  went  to  Stiickbad — crawled  really — put 
up  at  the  hotel  and  sent  for  the  resident  doctor,  Pro- 
fessor Ozzenbach,  Member  of  the  Board  of  Pharmacy 
of  Berlin,   Specialist  on  Nutrition,   Fellow  of  the 

198 


SAM   JOPLIX'S   EPIGASTKIC    NEKVE 

Poyal  Society  of  Bacteriologists,  President  of  the 
Vienna  Association  of  Physiological  Research — that 
kind  of  man.  He  looked  me  all  over  and  shook  his 
head.     He  spoke  broken  English — badly. 

" '  Who  has  dreated  yon,  may  I  ask,  Meester 
Boblin  ? ' 

"  '  Doctor  Stuff  en,  at  Eizzenbad.' 

"  i  Ah,  yes,  a  fery  goot  man,  but  a  leedle  de  times 
behindt.     Vat  did  you  eat  % ' 

"  I  handed  him  the  list. 

"  '  Xo  vonder  dot  you  are  thin,  my  f rent — yoost 
as  I  oxpected — dis  ees  de  olt  deory  of  broteids.  Dot 
is  all  oxbloded  now.  Eef  you  haf  stay  anuder  mont 
you  vould  be  dead.  Everyting  dot  he  has  dold  you 
vas  yoost  de  udder  way ;  no  bread,  no  meelk,  no  vege- 
bubbles — noddings  of  dis,  not  von  leedle  bit.  I  vill 
make  von  leest — come  to-morrow.'  " 

"  Did  you  go,  Joppy  ?  "  inquired  Stebbins. 

"Did  I  go?  Yes,  back  to  the  depot  and  on  to 
Cologne.  That  night  I  ate  two  plates  of  sauerkraut, 
a  slice  of  pork  and  a  piece  of  cheese  the  size  of  my 
hand ;  slept  like  a  top." 

"  So  the  proteids  and  carbohydrates  didn't  do  your 
epigastric  any  good,  old  chap,"  remarked  Pudfut  in 
an  effort  to  relieve  the  gloom. 

"  Proteids,   carbohydrates   and  my   epigastric   be 

199 


SAM   JOPLIN'S   EPIGASTRIC    NERVE 

damned,"  exploded  Joplin.  "  On  your  feet,  boys,  all 
of  you.  Here's  to  the  food  of  our  fathers,  with  every 
man  a  full  plate.  And  here's  to  dear  old  Marny,  the 
human  kangaroo.  May  his  appetite  never  fail  and 
his  paunch  never  shrink !  " 


200 


MISS  BUFFUM'S  NEW  BOARDER 


MISS  BUFFUM'S  NEW  BOARDER 

I 

He  was  seated  near  the  top  end  of  Miss  Bufium's 
t&ble  when  I  first  saw  his  good-natured  face  with  its 
twinkling  eyes,  high  cheekbones  and  broad,  white 
forehead  in  strong  contrast  to  the  wizened,  almost 
sour,  visage  of  our  landlady.  Up  to  the  time  of  his 
coming  every  one  had  avoided  that  end,  or  had  gradu- 
ally shifted  his  seat,  gravitating  slowly  toward  the 
bottom,  where  the  bank  clerk,  the  college  professor 
and  I  hobnobbed  over  our  soup  and  boiled  mutton. 

It  was  his  laugh  that  attracted  my  attention — the 
first  that  had  come  from  the  upper  end  of  the  table 
in  the  memory  of  the  oldest  boarder.  ^len  talk  of 
the  first  kiss,  the  first  baby,  the  first  bluebird  in  the 
spring,  but  to  me,  who  have  suffered  and  know,  the 
first,  sincere,  hearty  laugh,  untrammelled  and  un- 
limited, that  rings  down  the  hide-bound  table  of  a 
dismal  boarding-house,  carries  with  it  a  surprise  and 
charm  that  outclasses  them  all.  The  effect  on  this 
occasion  was  like  the  opening  of  a  window  letting  in 

203 


MISS  BUFFUM'S  KEW  BOAEDEE 

a  gust  of  pure  air.  Some  of  the  more  sensitive 
shivered  at  its  freshness,  and  one  woman  raised  her 
eyeglasses  in  astonishment,  but  all  the  rest  craned 
their  heads  in  the  new  boarder's  direction,  their 
faces  expressing  their  enjoyment.  As  for  Miss  Buf- 
fum  and  the  schoolmistress,  they  so  far  forgot  them- 
selves as  to  join  audibly  in  the  merriment. 

What  the  secret  of  the  man's  power,  or  why  the 
schoolteacher — who  sat  on  Miss  Buffum's  right — 
should  have  become  suddenly  hilarious,  or  how  Miss 
Buffum  herself  could  be  prodded  or  beguiled  into 
smiles,  no  one  at  my  end  of  the  table  could  under- 
stand ;  and  yet,  as  the  days  went  by,  it  became  more 
and  more  evident  that  not  only  were  these  two  cold, 
brittle  exteriors  being  slowly  thawed  out,  but  that 
every  one  else  within  the  sound  of  his  seductive  voice 
was  yielding  to  his  influence.  Stories  that  had  lain 
quiet  in  our  minds  for  months  for  lack  of  a  willing 
or  appreciative  ear,  or  had  been  told  behind  our 
hands, — small  pipings  most  of  them  of  club  and 
social  gossip,  now  became  public  property,  some 
being  bowled  along  the  table  straight  at  the  new 
boarder,  who  sent  his  own  rolling  back  in  exchange, 
his  big,  sonorous  voice  filling  the  room  as  he  replied 
with  accounts  of  his  life  in  Poland  among  the  peas- 
ants ;  of  his  experiences  in  the  desert ;  of  a  shipwreck 
of!  the  coast  of  Ceylon  in  which  he  was  given  up  for 

204 


MISS    BOTTOM'S    NEW   BOARDER 

lost ;  of  a  trip  he  made  across  the  Russian  steppes  in 
a  sleigh — each  adventure  ending  in  some  strangely 
humorous  situation  which  put  the  table  in  a  roar. 

Xone  of  these  narratives,  however,  solved  the  mys- 
tery of  his  identity  or  of  his  occupation.  All  our 
good  landlady  knew  was  that  he  had  driven  up  in  a 
hack  one  afternoon,  bearing  a  short  letter  of  intro- 
duction from  a  former  lodger — a  man  who  had  lived 
abroad  for  the  previous  ten  years — introducing  Mr. 
ISTorvic  Bing;  that  after  its  perusal  she  had  given 
him  the  second-story  front  room,  at  that  moment 
empty — a  fact  that  had  greatly  influenced  her — and 
that  he  had  at  once  moved  in.  His  trunks — there 
were  two  of  them — had,  she  remembered,  been 
covered  with  foreign  labels  (and  still  were) — all  of 
which  could  be  verified  by  any  one  who  had  a  right 
to  know  and  who  would  take  the  trouble  to  inspect 
his  room  when  he  was  out,  which  occurred  every  day 
between  ten  in  the  morning  and  six  in  the  afternoon, 
and  more  often  between  six  in  the  afternoon  and  ten 
the  next  morning.  The  slight  additional  informa- 
tion she  possessed  came  from  the  former  lodger's 
letter,  which  stated  that  the  bearer,  Mr.  Norvic  Bing. 
was  a  native  of  Denmark,  that  he  was  visiting 
America  for  the  first  time,  and  that,  desiring  a  place 
where  he  could  live  in  complete  retirement,  the  writer 
had  recommended  Miss  Bufium's  house. 

205 


MISS    BUFFUM'S    NEW   BOAKDEK 

As  to  who  lie  was  in  his  own  country — and  he  cer* 
minly  must  have  been  some  one  of  importance,  judg- 
ing from  his  appearance — and  what  the  nature  of  his 
business,  these  things  did  not  concern  the  dear  lady 
in  the  least.  He  was  courteous,  treated  her  with 
marked  respect,  was  exceedingly  agreeable,  and  had 
insisted — and  this  she  stated  was  the  one  particular 
thing  that  endeared  him  to  her — had  insisted  on  pay- 
ing his  board  a  month  in  advance,  instead  of  waiting 
until  the  thirty  days  had  elapsed.  His  excuse  for 
this  unheard-of  idiosyncrasy  was  that  he  might  some 
day  be  suddenly  called  away,  too  suddenly  even  to 
notify  her  of  his  departure,  and  that  he  did  not  want 
either  his  belongings  or  his  landlady's  mind  disturbed 
during  his  absence. 

Miss  BufTimi's  summing  up  of  Bing's  courtesy  and 
affability  was  shared  by  every  one  at  my  end  of  the 
table,  although  some  of  them  differed  as  regarded  his 
origin  and  occupation. 

"  Looks  more  like  an  Englishman  than  a  Dane," 
said  the  bank  clerk ;  "  although  I  don't  know  any 
Danes.  But  he's  a  daisy,  anyhow,  and  ought  to  have 
his  salary  raised  for  being  so  jolly." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  rejoined  the  professor. 
"  He  is  unquestionably  a  Scandinavian — you  can  see 
that  in  the  high  cheekbones  and  flat  nose.  He  is  evi- 
dently studying  our  people  with  a  view  of  writing  a 

206 


MISS    BUFFUM'S    XEW    BOAKDER 

book.  Nothing  else  would  persuade  a  man  of  his 
parts  to  live  here.  I  lived  in  just  such  a  place  the 
winter  I  spent  in  Dresden.  You  want  to  get  close  to 
the  people  when  you  study  their  peculiarities.  But 
whoever  he  is,  or  wherever  he  conies  from,  he  is  a  most 
delightful  gentleman — perfectly  simple,  and  so  sin- 
cere that  it  is  a  pleasure  to  hear  him  talk." 

As  for  myself,  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  did 
not  agree  with  either  the  bank  clerk  or  the  pro- 
fessor. Although  I  admitted  Mr.  Bing's  wide  expe- 
rience of  men  and  affairs,  and  his  marvellous  powers 
of  conversation,  I  could  not  divest  myself  of  the  con- 
viction that  underneath  it  all  there  lay  something 
more  than  a  mere  desire  to  be  either  kindly  or  enter- 
taining ;  in  fact,  that  his  geniality,  though  outwardly 
spontaneous,  was  really  a  cloak  to  hide  another  side 
of  his  nature — a  fog  into  which  he  retreated — and 
that  some  day  the  real  man  would  be  revealed. 

I  made  no  mention  of  my  misgivings  to  any  of  my 
fellow-boarders.  My  knowledge  of  men  of  his  class 
— brilliant  conversationalists  with  a  world-wide  ex- 
perience to  draw  upon — was  slight,  and  my  grounds 
for  doubting  his  sincerity  were  so  devoid  of  proof 
that  few  persons  would  have  considered  them  any- 
thing but  the  product  of  a  disordered  mind. 

And  yet  I  still  held  to  my  opinion. 

I  had  caught  something,  I  fancied,  that  the  others 

207 


MISS    BUEEUM'S   NEW   BOABDEK 

had  missed.  It  occurred  one  night  after  he  had  told 
a  story  and  was  waiting  for  the  laugh  to  subside. 
Soon  a  strange,  weary  expression  crept  over  his  face 
— the  same  look  that  comes  into  the  face  of  a  clown 
who  has  been  hurt  in  a  tumble  and  who,  while  wres- 
tling with  the  pain,  still  keeps  his  face  a-grin.  Sud- 
denly, from  out  of  his  merry,  smooth-shaven  face, 
there  came  a  flash  from  his  eyes  so  searching,  so  keen, 
so  suspicious,  so  entirely  unlike  the  man  we  knew,  so 
foreign  to  his  mood  at  the  moment,  that  I  instantly 
thought  of  the  burglar  peering  through  the  painted 
spectacles  of  the  family  portrait  while  he  watched 
his  unconscious  victim  counting  his  gold. 

This  conviction  so  possessed  me  that  I  found 
myself  for  days  after  peering  into  Bing's  face,  watch- 
ing for  its  repetition — so  much  so  that  the  professor 
asked  me  with  a  laugh: 

"  Has  Mr.  Bing  hypnotized  you  as  badly  as  he  has 
the  ladies  ?  They  hang  on  his  every  word.  Curious 
study  of  the  effect  of  mind  on  matter,  isn't  it  ?  " 

The  second  time  I  caught  the  strange  flash  was 
before  he  had  told  his  story — when  his  admonitory 
glance — his  polite  way  of  compelling  attention — was 
sweeping  the  table.  In  its  course  his  eyes  rested  for 
an  instant  on  mine,  kindled  with  suspicion,  and  then 
there  flashed  from  their  depths  a  light  that  seemed 
to  illuminate  every  corner  of  my  brain.     When  I 

208 


MISS    BUFFUM'S    NEW   BOAKDER 

looked  again  his  face  was  wreathed  in  smiles,  his 
eyes  sparkling  with  merriment.  Instantly  my  doubts 
returned  with  redoubled  force.  What  had  he  found 
in  that  instantaneous  flash,  I  wondered?  Had  he 
read  my  thoughts,  or  had  he,  from  his  place  behind 
the  painted  canvas,  caught  some  expression  on  some 
victim's  face  which  had  roused  his  fears? 

Then  a  delightful  thing  happened  to  me.  I  was  but 
a  young  fellow  trying  to  get  a  foothold  in  literature, 
who  had  never  been  out  of  his  own  country,  and  who 
spoke  no  tongue  but  his  own;  he  was  a  man  of  the 
world,  a  traveller  over  the  globe  and  speaking  five 
languages. 

"  If  you're  not  going  out,"  he  said,  that  same  night, 
"  come  and  have  a  smoke  with  me."  This  in  his 
heartiest  manner,  laying  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  as 
he  spoke.  "  You'll  find  me  in  my  room.  I've  some 
books  that  may  interest  vou,  and  we  can  continue  our 
talk  by  my  coal-fire.     Come  with  me  now." 

We  had  had  no  special  talk — none  that  I  could 
remember.  I  recalled  that  I  had  asked  him  an  irrele- 
vant question  after  the  flash  had  vanished,  and  that 
he  had  answered  me  in  return — but  no  talk  followed. 

"  I  never  invite  any  one  up  here,"  he  began  when 

we  reached  his  room ;  "  the  place  is  so  small " 

Here  he  closed  the  door,  drew  up  the  only  armchair 
in  the  room  and  placed  me  in  it — "  but  it  is  large 

209 


MISS    BUEFUM'S   NEW   BOAKDER 

enough  for  a  place  to  crawl  into  and  sleep — much 
larger,  I  can  tell  you,  than  I  have  had  in  many  other 
parts  of  the  world.  I  can  write  here,  too,  without 
interruption.  What  else  do  we  want,  really  ? — To 
be  warm,  to  be  fed  and  then  to  have  some  congenial 
spirits  about  us !  I  am  quite  happy,  I  assure  you, 
with  all  those  dear,  good  people  downstairs.  They 
are  so  kind,  and  they  are  so  human,  and  they  are  all 
honest,  each  in  his  way,  which  is  always  refreshing 
to  me0  Most  people,  you  know,  are  not  honest." 
And  he  looked  me  over  curiously. 

I  made  no  answer  except  to  nod  my  assent.  My 
eyes  were  wandering  over  the  room  in  the  endeavor 
to  find  something  to  confirm  my  suspicions — over  the 
two  trunks  with  their  labels;  over  a  desk  littered, 
piled,  crammed  with  papers;  over  the  mantel,  on 
which  was  spread  a  row  of  photographs,  among  them 
the  portrait  of  a  distinguished-looking  woman  with 
a  child  resting  in  her  lap,  and  next  to  it  that  of  a  man 
in  uniform. 

"  Yes — some  of  my  friends  across  the  sea."  I  had 
not  asked  him — he  had  read  my  mind.  "  This  one 
you  did  not  see — I  keep  it  behind  the  others — three 
of  them,  like  a  little  pair  of  steps — all  I  have  left. 
The  oldest  is  named  Olga,  and  that  little  one  in  the 
middle,  with  the  cap  on  her  head — that  is  Pauline." 

"  Your  children  ?  " 

210 


MISS    BUEFUM'S   NEW    BOAKDEK 

"  Yes." 

"  Where  are  they  ?  " 

"  Oh,  many  thousand  miles  from  here !  But  we 
won't  talk  about  it.  They  are  well  and  happy.  And 
this  one  " — here  he  took  down  the  photograph  of  the 
man  in  full  uniform — "  is  the  Grand  Duke  Vladimir. 
Yes,  a  soldierly-looking  man — none  of  the  others  are 
like  him.  But  come  now,  tell  me  of  yourself — you 
have  some  one  at  home,  too  % " 

I  nodded  my  head  and  mentioned,  my  mother  and 
the  others  at  home. 

"  Xo  sweetheart  yet  ?  Xo  ? — You  needn't  an- 
swer— we  all  have  sweethearts  at  your  age — at  mine 
it  is  all  over.  But  why  did  you  leave  her  ?  It  is  so 
hard  to  do  that.  Ah,  yes,  I  see — to  make  your  bread. 
And  how  do  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  I  write." 

He  lowered  his  brows  and  looked  at  me  under 
his  lids. 

"  What  sort  of  writing  ?  Books  ?  What  is  called 
a  novel  ?  " 

"  Xo — not  yet.  I  work  on  special  articles  for  the 
newspapers,  and  now  and  then  I  get  a  short  story 
or  an  essay  into  one  of  the  magazines." 

He  was  replacing  the  pictures  as  I  talked,  his  back 
to  me.    He  turned  suddenly  and  again  sought  my  eye. 

"  Don't  waste  your  time  on  essays  or  statistics. 

211 


MISS    BUFFUM'S   NEW   BOARDER 

You  will  not  succeed  as  a  machine.  You  have  imagi- 
nation, which  is  a  real  gift.  You  also  dream,  which 
is  another  way  of  saying  that  you  can  invent.  If  you 
can  add  construction  to  your  invention,  you  will  come 
quite  close  to  what  they  call  genius.  I  saw  all  this 
in  your  face  to-night;  that  is  why  I  wanted  to  talk 
to  you.  So  many  young  men  go  astray  for  want  of  a 
word  dropped  into  their  minds  at  the  right  time.  As 
for  me,  all  I  know  is  statistics,  and  so  I  will  never  be 
a  genius."  And  a  light  laugh  broke  from  his  lips. 
"  Worse  luck,  too.  I  must  exchange  them  for  money. 
Look  at  this — I  have  been  all  day  correcting  the 
proofs." 

With  this  he  walked  to  his  table — he  had  not  yet 
taken  a  seat,  although  a  chair  was  next  to  my  own — 
and  laid  in  my  lap  a  roll  of  galley-proofs. 

"  It  is  the  new  encyclopaedia.  I  do  the  biographies, 
you  see — principally  of  men  and  the  different  towns 
and  countries.     I  have  got  down  now  to  the  R's — 

Richelieu — Rochambeau "  his  fingers  were  now 

tracing  the  lines.  "  Here  is  Romulus,  and  here  is 
Russia — I  gave  that  half  a  column,  and — dry  work, 
isn't  it  ?  But  I  like  it,  for  I  can  write  here  by  my 
fire  if  I  please,  and  all  my  other  time  is  my  own. 
You  see  they  are  signed  i  Norvic  Bing.'  I  insisted 
on  that.  These  publishers  are  selfish  sometimes,  and 
want  to  efface  a  writer's  personality,  but  I  would  not 

212 


MISS    BUEFUM'S   KEW   BOARDER 

permit  it,  and  so  finally  they  gave  in.  But  no  more 
of  that — one  must  eat,  and  to  eat  one  must  work,  so 
why  quarrel  with  the  spade  or  the  ground  ?  See  that 
you  raise  good  crops — that  is  the  best  of  all." 

Then  he  branched  off  into  a  description  of  a  ball 
he  had  attended  some  years  before  at  the  Tuileries — 
of  the  splendor  of  the  interior;  the  rich  costumes  of 
the  women ;  the  blaze  of  decorations  worn  by  the  men ; 
the  graciousness  of  the  Empress  and  the  charm  of 
her  beauty — then  of  a  visit  he  had  made  to  the  Exile 
a  few  months  after  he  had  reached  Chiselhurst. 
Throwing  up  his  hands  he  said :  "  A  feeble  old  man 
with  hollow  eyes  and  a  cracked  voice.  Oh,  such  a 
pity!  For  he  was  royal — although  all  Europe 
laughed." 

When  the  time  came  for  me  to  go — it  was  near  mid- 
night, to  my  astonishment — lie  followed  me  to  the 
door,  bidding  me  good-night  with  both  hands  over 
mine,  saying  I  should  come  again  when  he  was  at 
leisure,  as  he  had  been  that  night — which  I  promised 
to  do,  adding  my  thanks  for  what  I  declared  was  the 
most  delightful  evening  I  had  ever  spent  in  my  life. 

And  it  had  been — and  with  it  there  had  oozed  out 
of  my  mind  every  drop  of  my  former  suspicion. 
There  was  another  side  that  he  was  hiding  from  us, 
but  it  was  the  side  of  tenderness  for  his  children — 
for  those  he  loved  and  from  whom  he  was  parted. 

213 


MISS    BUFFUM'S   NEW   BOAEDEE 

I  had  boasted  to  myself  of  my  intuition  and  had 
looked,  as  I  supposed,  deep  into  his  heart,  and  all  I 
found  were  three  little  faces.  With  this  came  a  cer- 
tain feeling  of  shame  that  I  had  been  stupid  enough 
to  allow  my  imagination  to  run  away  with  my  judg- 
ment.    Hereafter  I  would  have  more  sense. 

All  that  winter  Bing  was  the  life  of  the  house. 
The  days  on  which  his  seat  was  empty — off  getting 
statistics  for  the  encyclopaedia,  I  explained  to  my 
fellow-boarders,  I  being  looked  upon  now  as  having 
special  information  owing  to  my  supposed  intimacy, 
although  I  had  never  entered  his  room  since  that 
night — on  these  days,  I  say,  the  table  relapsed  into 
its  old-time  dullness. 

One  night  I  found  his  card  on  my  pin-cushion.  I 
always  locked  my  door  myself  when  I  left  my  room — 
had  done  so  that  night,  I  thought,  but  I  must  have 
forgotten  it.  Under  his  name  was  written :  "  Say 
good-by  to  the  others." 

I  concluded,  of  course,  that  it  was  but  for  a  few 
days  and  that  he  would  return  as  usual,  and  hold  out 
his  two  big  generous  hands  to  each  one  down  the 
table,  leaving  a  warmth  behind  him  which  they  had 
not  known  since  he  last  pressed  their  palms — and  so 
on  down  until  he  reached  Miss  BufTum  and  the  school- 
teacher, who  would  both  rise  in  their  seats  to  welcome 
him. 

214 


MISS    BUFEUM'S    NEW   BOAEDEE 

With  the  passing  of  the  first  week  the  good  lady 
became  uneasy ;  the  board,  as  usual,  had  been  paid  in 
advance,  but  it  was  the  man  she  missed.  Xo  one 
else  could  add  the  drop  of  oil  to  the  machinery  of  the 
house,  nor  would  it  run  smoothly  without  him. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  week  she  rapped  at  my 
door  and  with  trembling  steps  led  me  to  Bing's  room. 
She  had  opened  it  with  her  own  pass-key — a  liberty 
she  never  allowed  any  one  to  take  except  herself,  and 
never  then  unless  some  emergency  arose.  It  was 
empty  of  everything  that  belonged  to  him — had  been 
for  days.  The  room  had  been  set  in  order  and  the 
bed  had  been  made  up  by  the  maid  the  day  he  left 
and  had  not  been  slept  in  since.  Trunks,  books, 
manuscripts,  photographs — all  were  gone — not  a  ves- 
tige of  anything  belonging  to  him  was  visible. 

I  stooped  down  and  examined  the  grate.  On  the 
top  of  the  dead  coals  lay  a  little  heap  of  ashes — all 
that  was  left  of  a  package  of  letters. 


II 


Five  years  passed.  Times  had  changed  with  me. 
I  had  long  since  left  my  humble  quarters  at  Miss 
BufTum's  and  now  had  two  rooms  in  an  uptown  apart- 
ment-house.    My  field  of  work,  too,  had  become  en- 

215 


MISS    BUFFUM'S   NEW   BOARDER 

larged.  I  had  ceased  to  write  for  the  Sunday  papers 
and  was  employed  on  special  articles  for  the  maga- 
zines. This  had  widened  my  acquaintance  with  men 
and  with  life.  Heretofore  I  had  known  the  dark 
alleys  and  slums,  the  inside  of  station-houses,  bring- 
ing me  in  contact  with  the  police  and  with  some  of  the 
detectives,  among  them  Alcorn  of  the  Central  Office, 
a  man  who  had  sought  me  out  of  his  own  accord. 
Many  of  these  trusted  me  and  from  them  I  gathered 
much  of  my  material.  Now  I  explored  other  fields. 
With  the  backing  of  the  editor  I  often  claimed  seats 
at  the  opening  of  important  conventions — not  so  much 
political  as  social  and  scientific;  so,  too,  at  many  of 
the  public  dinners  given  to  our  own  and  distinguished 
foreign  guests,  would  a  seat  be  reserved  for  me,  my 
object  being  the  study  of  men  when  they  were  off  their 
guard — reading  their  minds,  finding  out  the  man 
behind  the  mask,  a  habit  I  had  never  yet  thrown  off. 
Most  men  have  some  mental  fad — this  was  mine. 
Sometimes  my  articles  found  an  echo  in  a  note  writ- 
ten to  me  by  the  guests  themselves;  this  would  fill 
me  with  joy.  Often  I  was  criticised  for  the  absurdity 
of  my  views. 

On  this  occasion  a  great  banquet  was  to  be  given 
to  Prince  Polinski,  a  nephew  of  the  Czar  and  possible 
heir  to  the  throne.  The  press  had  been  filled  with  the 
detail  of  his  daily  life — of  the  dinners,  teas  and  func- 

216 


MISS    BUEFIM'S   NEW    BOABDEB 

tions  given  by  society  in  his  honor ;  of  his  reception 
by  the  mayor,  of  his  audience  at  the  White  House; 
of  the  men  who  guarded  his  person ;  of  his  "  opin- 
ions/' "  impressions  "  and  "  views  "  on  this,  that  and 
the  other  thing,  but  so  far  no  one  had  dissected  the 
man  himself. 

What  our  editor  wanted  was  a  minute  analysis  of 
the  mind  of  a  young  Kussian  studied  at  close  range. 
The  occasion  of  the  banquet  was  selected  because 
I  could  then  examine  him  at  my  leisure.  The 
results  were  to  be  used  by  the  editor  in  an  article 
of  his  own,  my  memoranda  being  only  so  much 
padding. 

When  I  entered  and  took  up  a  position  near  the 
door  where  I  could  look  him  over,  Delmonico's  larg- 
est reception-room  was  crowded  with  guests :  bankers, 
railroad  presidents,  politicians,  officers  of  the  army 
and  navy,  judges,  doctors,  and  the  usual  collection  of 
white  shirt-fronts  that  fill  the  seats  at  a  public  dinner 
of  this  kind.  The  Prince  was  in  the  uniform  of  an 
officer  of  the  Imperial  Navy.  He  was  heavily  built 
and  tall,  with  a  swarthy  face  enlivened  by  a  pointed 
mustache.  The  Bussian  Ambassador  at  his  side  was 
in  full  dress  and  wore  a  number  of  decorations :  these 
two  needed  no  pointing  out  Some  of  the  others 
were  less  distinguishable — among  them  a  heavily- 
built  man  in  evening-dress,  with  a  full  beard  and 

217 


MISS    BUEEUM'S   NEW   BOARDER 

mustache  which  covered  his  face  almost  to  his  eyes — 
soft  and  bushy  as  the  hair  on  a  Spitz  dog  and  as 
black.  With  a  leather  apron  and  a  broad-axe  he 
vould  have  passed  at  a  masquerade  for  an  executioner 
of  the  olden  time.  Despite  this  big  beard,  there  was 
a  certain  bearing  about  the  man — a  certain  elegance 
both  of  manner  and  gesture — talking  with  his  hands, 
accentuating  his  sentences  with  outstretched  fingers, 
lifting  his  shoulders  in  a  shrug  (I  saw  all  this  from 
across  the  room  where  I  stood) — that  showed  clearly 
not  only  his  high  position,  but  his  breeding.  What 
position  he  held  under  the  Prince  I  was,  of  course, 
unaware,  but  it  must  have  been  very  close,  for  the 
big  Russian  kept  him  constantly  at  the  royal  side.  I 
noted,  too,  that  the  Prince  was  careful  to  introduce 
him  to  many  who  were  brought  up  to  shake  his 
hand. 

When  the  procession  was  formed  to  march  into 
the  dining-hall,  Polinski  came  first  on  the  arm  of 
the  mayor;  then  followed  a  group  of  dignitaries, 
including  the  Ambassadors,  the  black-bearded  man 
walking  by  the  side  of  the  Prince,  who  would  now 
and  then  turn  and  address  him. 

My  seat  was  against  the  wall  opposite  the  dais, 
and  knowing  that  I  should  have  scant  opportunity 
to  study  the  Prince's  face  from  where  I  sat,  I  edged 
my  way  along  the  side  of  the  corridor,  the  crowd 

218 


MISS    BUEFUM'S    NEW   BOARDER 

making  progress  difficult  for  him,  but  easy  for  me, 
as  I  crept  close  to  the  wall.  When  I  reached  the  door 
opening  into  the  banquet  hall  I  took  up  a  position 
just  inside  the  jamb,  so  that  I  could  get  a  full  view  of 
the  Prince  as  he  passed. 

At  this  instant  I  became  aware  that  a  pair  of  broad 
shoulders  were  touching  mine.  Turning  quickly,  I 
found  myself  looking  into  the  face  of  the  bearded 
Russian.  His  eyes  were  fastened  on  mine,  an  inquir- 
ing, rather  surprised  look  on  his  face,  as  if  he  was 
wondering  at  the  bad  manners  of  a  man  who  would 
thrust  himself  ahead  of  a  royal  personage.  For  an 
instant  the  features  were  calm  and  impassive,  then  a& 
he  continued  to  look  at  me  there  flashed  out  of  his  eyes- 
a  search-light  glance  that  shot  straight  through  me. 

It  was  Bing! 

Bearded  like  a  Cossack;  more  heavily  built,  sol- 
emn, dignified,  elegant  in  carriage  and  demeanor, 
with  not  a  trace  of  jollity  about  him — but  Bing  all 
the  same !    I  could  have  sworn  to  it ! 

The  flash  burned  for  an  instant ;  the  eyes  behind 
the  canvas  dodged  back,  then  with  a  graceful  wave 
of  the  hand  he  turned  to  the  Ambassador  who  was 
now  abreast  of  him  and  said  in  a  voice  so  low  that 
I  caught  the  words  but  not  the  full  tone : 

"Isn't  it  a  charming  sight,  your  Excellency? 
There  is  nothing  like  the  hospitality  of  these  wonder- 

219 


MISS  BUFFUM'S  NEW  BOARDER 

fill  Americans."  And  the  two  passed  into  the 
brilliantly-lighted  hall. 

I  made  my  way  to  my  seat  and  sat  thinking  it  over. 
That  he  had  recognized  me  was  without  question; 
that  he  had  ignored  me  was  equally  true — why,  I 
could  not  tell. 

For  years  I  had  made  him  one  of  my  heroes.  He 
had  stood  for  cheerfulness,  for  contentment  with  one's 
lot,  for  consideration  for  another — and  always  a 
weaker  brother.  When  his  abrupt  departure  had  been 
criticised  by  my  fellow-boarders,  I  had  stemmed  the 
tide  against  him,  dilating  on  his  love  for  his  chil- 
dren, on  his  loneliness  away  from  them;  on  his 
simplicity,  his  common-sense,  his  desire  to  help  even 
a  young  fellow  like  me  who  had  no  claim  upon  him. 
In  return  he  had  seen  fit  to  treat  me  with  contempt 
— I  who  would  have  been  so  proud  to  tell  him  how 
his  advice  had  helped  me  and  what  progress  I  had 
made  by  following  it. 

The  incident  took  such  hold  upon  me  that  I  found 
myself  dissecting  his  mentality  instead  of  that  of  the 
Great  Personage  in  the  public  eye.  As  I  analyzed 
my  feelings  I  found  that  he  had  hurt  my  heart 
more  than  my  pride.  I  would  have  been  so  glad 
to  shake  his  hand — so  glad  to  rejoice  with  him 
over  his  changed  conditions — once  the  occupant  of  a 
front  room  in  a  cheap  boarding-house,  supporting 

220 


MISS    BUFFUM'S    NEW    BOAKDEE 

himself  by  filling  space  in  the  columns  of  an  encyclo- 
pedia, and  now  the  bosom  friend  of  Princes  and 
Ambassadors ! 

Then  a  doubt  arose  in  my  mind.  Was  it  Bing? 
Had  I  not  made  a  mistake?  How  could  a  smooth- 
shaven  Dane  with  blond  hair  transform  himself 
into  a  swarthy  Eussian  with  the  beard  of  a  Cossack  ? 
There  was,  it  is  true,  no  change  in  the  eyes  or  in  the 
round  head — in  the  whiteness  and  width  of  the  fore- 
head, or  the  breadth  of  the  shoulders.  All  these  I 
went  over  one  by  one  as  I  watched  him  every  now 
and  then  lean  across  the  table  and  speak  to  some  of 
the  distinguished  guests  that  surrounded  him.  The 
thing  which  puzzled  me  was  his  grave,  sedate 
demeanor,  dignified,  almost  austere  at  times.  A  man, 
I  thought,  might  grow  a  beard  and  dye  it,  but  how 
could  he  grow  a  different  set  of  manners,  how 
smother  his  jollity,  how  wipe  out  his  spontaneous 
buoyancy  ? 

Xo,  it  was  not  Bing !  It  was  only  my  stupid  self. 
I  was  always  ready  to  find  the  mysterious  and 
unnatural.     I  turned  to  the  guest  next  me. 

"  Do  you  know  who  that  man  is  on  the  dais,"  I 
asked ;  "  the  one  all  black  and  white,  with  the  big 
beard?" 

"  Yes,  one  of  the  Prince's  suite;  some  jaw-break- 
ing name  with  an  '  -usski  '  on  the  end  of  it     He 

221 


MISS    BUFFUM'S    NEW   BOARDER 

brought  him  with  him ;  looks  like  a  bull  pup  chewing 
a  muff,  doesn't  he  ?  " 

I  smiled  at  the  comparison,  but  I  was  still  in  doubt. 

When  the  banquet  broke  up  I  hurried  out  ahead  of 
the  others  and  posted  myself  at  the  top  of  the  stair- 
case leading  down  to  the  side  door  of  the  street.  The 
Prince's  carriage — an  ordinary  cab — was  ordered  to 
this  door  to  escape  the  crowd  and  to  avoid  any  delay. 
This  I  learned  from  my  old  friend  Alcorn  of  the 
Central  Office,  who  was  in  charge  of  the  detectives  at 
the  dinner,  and  who  in  answer  to  my  request  said : 

"  Certainly  I'll  let  you  through.  Come  alone,  and 
don't  speak  to  me  as  you  go  by.  I'll  say  you're  one 
of  us.  The  crowd  thinks  he's  going  out  by  the  other 
door,  and  you  can  get  pretty  close  to  him." 

The  Prince  came  first,  wrapped  in  furs — the  black- 
bearded  Russian  at  his  side  in  overcoat,  silk  hat  and 
white  gloves.  The  Ambassador  and  the  others  had 
bidden  them  good-night  at  the  top  of  the  staircase. 

Under  Alcorn's  direction  I  had  placed  myself  just 
inside  the  street  door  where  I  could  slip  out  behind 
the  Prince  and  his  black-bearded  companion.  As  a 
last  resort  I  determined  to  walk  straight  up  to  him 
and  say :  "  You  haven't  forgotten  me,  Mr.  Bing,  have 
you  ?  "  If  I  had  changed  so  as  to  need  proof  of  my 
identity  Alcorn  would  furnish  it.  Whatever  his 
answer,  his  voice  would  solve  my  mystery. 

222 


MISS    BOTOX'S    NEW   BOARDER 

He  walked  down  the  stairs  with  an  easy,  swinging 
movement,  keeping  a  little  behind  the  Prince ;  waited 
until  Alcorn  had  opened  the  street  door  and  with  a 
nod  of  thanks  followed  Polinski  out  into  the  night. 
Once  outside  I  shrank  back  into  the  shadow  of  the 
doorway  and  held  my  breath  to  catch  his  first  spoken 
word — to  the  coachman — to  the  Prince — to  any  one 
who  came  in  his  wav. 

At  this  moment  a  man  in  a  slouch  hat  and  poorly 
dressed,  a  light  cane  under  his  arm,  evidently  a 
tramp,  hurried  across  the  street  to  hold  the  cab  door. 
I  edged  nearer,  straining  my  ears. 

The  Prince  bent  his  head  and  stooped  to  enter  the 
cab.  The  tramp  leaned  forward,  shot  up  his  right 
arm ;  there  came  a  flash  of  steel,  and  the  next  instant 
the  tramp  lay  writhing  on  the  sidewalk,  one  hand 
twisted  under  his  back,  the  other  held  in  the  viselike 
grip  of  the  black-bearded  man.  Alcorn  rushed  past 
me,  threw  himself  on  the  prostrate  tramp,  slipped 
a  pair  of  handcuffs  over  his  wrists,  dragged  him  to  his 
feet,  and  with  one  hand  on  his  throat  backed  him  into 
the  shadow  of  the  side  door. 

The  Prince  smiled  and  stepped  into  his  carriage. 
The  black-bearded  man  dusted  his  white  gloves  one 
on  the  other,  gave  an  order  in  a  low  tone  to  the  coach- 
man, took  his  place  beside  his  companion  and  the  two 
drove  off. 

223 


MISS    BUFFUM'S    NEW   BOAKDEE 

I  stood  out  in  the  rain  and  tried  to  pull  myself 
together.  The  rapidity  of  the  attack;  the  poise  and 
strength  of  the  black-bearded  Eussian ;  the  quickness 
with  which  Alcorn  had  risen  to  the  occasion;  the 
absence  of  all  outcry  or  noise  of  any  kind — no  one 
but  ourselves  witnessing  the  occurrence — had  taken 
my  breath  away.  That  an  attack  had  been  made  on 
the  life  of  the  Prince,  and  that  it  had  been  frustrated 
by  his  friend,  was  evident.  It  was  also  evident  that 
accosting  a  Prince  on  the  sidewalk  at  night  without 
previous  acquaintance  was  a  dangerous  experiment. 
When  I  recovered  my  wits  both  Alcorn  and  the 
would-be  assassin  had  disappeared.     So  had  the  cab. 

Only  two  morning  journals  had  an  account  of  the 
affair ;  one  dismissed  it  with  a  fling  at  the  police  for 
not  protecting  our  guests  from  annoyance,  and  the 
other  stated  that  a  drunken  tramp  had  demanded  the 
price  of  a  night's  lodging  from  the  Prince  as  he  was 
leaving  Delmonico's,  and  that  a  member  of  the 
Prince's  suite  had  held  the  fellow  until  a  policeman 
came  along  and  took  him  to  the  station-house.  Not  a 
word  of  the  murderous  lunge,  the  flash  of  steel,  the 
viselike  grip  of  the  black-bearded  man  or  the  click 
of  the  handcuffs. 
\      That  night  I  found  Alcorn. 

"  Did  that  fellow  try  to  stab  the  Prince  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes." 

224 


MISS    BUFFUM'S   NEW   BOAKDEE 

"  With  a  knife  ?  " 

"  Xo,  a  sword  cane." 

"  The  papers  didn't  say  so." 

"  No,  I  didn't  intend  they  should.  Wouldn't  have 
been  pleasant  reading  for  his  folks  in  St.  Petersburg. 
Besides,  we  haven't  rounded  up  his  gang  yet." 

"  The  Prince  didn't  seem  to  lose  his  nerve  8  n  I 
asked. 

"  Xo,  he  isn't  built  that  way." 

"  You  know  him,  then  ? ': 

"  Yes — been  with  him  every  day  since  he  arrived." 

"  Who  is  the  black-bearded  man  with  him  ? ': 

"  He  is  his  intimate  friend,  Count  Lovusski.  Been 
all  over  the  world  together." 

"  Is  Lovusski  his  only  name  ?  "  This  seemed  to 
be  my  chance. 

Alcorn  turned  quickly  and  looked  into  my  face. 

"  On  the  dead  quiet,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Alcorn,  you  can  trust  me." 

"  Xo — he's  got  half  a  dozen  of  'em.  In  Paris  in 
'70  he  was  Baron  Germunde  with  estates  in  Hungary. 
Lived  like  a  fighting-cock;  knew  everybody  at  the 
Palace  and  everybody  knew  him — stayed  there  all 
through  the  Franco-Prussian  War.  In  London  in 
'75  he  was  plain  Mr.  Loring,  trying  to  raise  money 
for  a  mine  somewhere  in  Portugal — knew  nobody 
but  stockbrokers  and  bank  presidents.    In  Xew  York 

225 


MISS   BUEEUM'S    NEW   BOARDER 

five  years  ago  he  was  Mr.  Norvic  Bing,  and  worked 
on  some  kind  of  a  dictionary;  lived  in  a  boarding- 
house  on  Union  Square." 

I  could  not  conceal  my  delight. 

"  I  knew  I  was  right !  "  I  cried,  laying  my  hand  on 
his  arm.     "  I  lived  with  him  there  a  whole  winter." 

"  Yes,  he  told  me  so.  That's  why  I  am  telling  you 
the  rest  of  it."  Alcorn  was  smiling,  a  curious  expres- 
sion lighting  his  face. 

"  And  how  came  he  to  be  such  a  friend  of  the 
Prince's  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  He  isn't  his  friend — isn't  anybody's  friend. 
He's  a  special  agent  of  the  Russian  Secret  Service." 


226 


CAPTAIN  JOE  AND  THE  SUSIE  ANN 


CAPTAIN  JOE  AND  THE  SUSIE  ANN 

Wide  of  beam,  stout  of  mast,  short-bowspritted, 
her  boom  clewed  up  to  clear  her  deck  load  of  rough 
stone ;  drawing  ten  feet  aft  and  nine  feet  f or'ard ;  a 
twelve-horse  hoisting  engine  and  boiler  in  her  fore- 
castle ;  at  the  tiller  a  wabbly-jointed,  halibut-shaped, 
moon-faced  (partially  eclipsed,  owing  to  a  fringe  of 
dark  whiskers),  sleepy-eyed  skipper  named  Baxter, — 
such  was  the  sloop  Susie  Ann,  and  her  outfit  and  her 
commander,  as  she  lay  alongside  the  dock  in  Xew 
London  Harbor,  ready  to  discharge  her  cargo  at  the 
site  of  Shark  Ledge  Lighthouse,  eight  miles  seaward. 

On  the  dock  itself,  over  a  wharf  post  sprawled 
her  owner,  old  Abram  Marrows,  a  thin,  long,  badly 
put  together  man,  awkward  as  a  stepladder  and  as 
rickety,  who,  after  trying  everything  from  farming 
to  selling  a  patent  churn,  had  at  last  become  a  ship- 
owner,  the  Susie  Ann  comprising  his  entire  fleet. 
Marrows  had  come  to  see  her  off;  this  being  the 
sloop's  first  trip  for  the  season. 

Lying  outside  the  Susie  Ann — her  lines  fast  to 
an  off-shore  spile,  was  the  construction  tug  of  the 

229 


CAPTAIN    JOE    AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 

lighthouse  gang,  the  deck  strewn  with  diving  gear, 
wrater  casks  and  the  like, — all  needed  in  the  further- 
ing of  the  work  at  the  ledge.  On  the  tug's  forward 
deck,  hat  off  and  jacket  swinging  loose,  stood  Captain 
Joe  Bell  in  charge  of  the  submarine  work  at  the  site, 
glorious  old  Captain  Joe,  with  the  body  of  a  capstan, 
legs  stiff  as  wharf  posts,  arms  and  hands  tough  as 
cant  hooks  and  heart  twice  as  big  as  all  of  them  put 
together. 

Each  and  every  piece  of  stone, — some  of  them 
weighed  seven  tons, — stowed  aboard  the  Susie  Ann, 
was,  when  she  arrived  alongside  the  foundation  of 
the  lighthouse,  to  be  lowered  over  her  side  and  sent 
down  to  Captain  Joe  to  place  in  thirty  feet  of  water. 
This  fact  made  him  particular  both  as  to  the  kind  of 
vessel  engaged  and  the  ability  of  the  skipper.  Bad 
seamanship  might  not  only  endanger  the  security 
of  the  work  but  his  own  life  as  well, — a  diver  not 
being  as  quick  as  a  crab  or  blackfish  in  getting  from 
under  a  seven-ton  stone  dropped  from  tripdogs  at 
the  signal  to  "  lower  away." 

Captain  Joe's  inspection  of  the  Susie  Anns  skip- 
pei  was  anything  but  satisfactory,  judging  from  the 
way  he  opened  his  battery  of  protest. 

"  Baxter  ain't  fittin',  I  tell  ye,  Abram  Marrows," 
he  exploded.  "  He  ain't  fittin'  and  never  will  be. 
Baxter  don't  know  most  nothin'.    Set  him  to  grubbin' 

230 


CAPTAIX    JOE    AXD    THE    SUSIE   AAA 

clams,  Abram,  but  don't  let  him  fool  'round  the 
Ledge.  He'll  git  the  sloop  ashore,  I  tell  ye,  or  drop 
a  stone  and  hurt  somebody.  Go  and  git  a  man  som'ers 
and  put  him  in  charge, — not  a  half-baked — "  here 
he  lowered  his  muzzle  and  fired  point-blank  at  the 
object  of  his  wrath, — "  Yes,  and  I'll  say  it  to  your 
face,  Captain  Baxter.  You  take  my  advice  and  lay 
off  for  this  v'yage, — it  ain't  no  picnic  out  to  the 
Ledge.  You  ain't  seen  it  since  we  got  the  stone  'bove 
high  water.  Keg'lar  mill  tail!  You  go  ashore,  I 
tell  ye, — or  ye'll  lose  the  sloop." 

Many  of  the  men  ranged  along  the  top  of  the  cabin 
of  the  tug,  or  perched  on  its  rail,  wondered  at  the 
vehemence  of  the  captain's  attack,  "  Moon-faced 
Baxter,"  as  he  was  called,  having  a  fair  reputation 
as  a  seaman.  They  knew,  too,  that  Captain  Joe  was 
aware  of  the  condition  of  Marrows's  affairs,  for  it  had 
been  common  talk  that  the  bank  had  loaned  Abram 
several  hundred  dollars  with  the  sloop  as  security  on 
the  captain's  own  personal  inspection.  Some  of  them 
had  even  been  present  when  Mrs.  Marrows, — a  faded 
old  woman  with  bleached  eyes  and  a  pursed-up  mouth, 
her  shawl  hooding  her  head  and  pinned  close  under 
her  chin  with  her  thumb  and  forefinger, — had  begged 
Captain  Joe  to  try  the  Susie  Ann  for  a  few  loads 
''until  Abram  could  "  ketch  up,"  and  had  heard  his 
promise  to  help  her. 

231 


CAPTAIN   JOE    AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 

But  they  made  no  protest.  Such  outbursts  on  the 
captain's  part  were  but  the  escaping  steam  from  the 
overcharged  boilei  of  his  indignation.  Underneath 
lay  the  firebox  of  his  heart,  chock  full  of  red-hot 
coals  glowing  with  sympathy  for  every  soul  who 
needed  his  help.  If  his  safety  valve  let  go  once  in  a 
while  it  was  to  escape  from  greater  danger. 

His  long  range  ammunition  exhausted,  Captain 
Joe  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  aft  to  where  his 
diving  gear  was  piled,  venting  his  indignation  at 
every  step.  This  time  the  outburst  was  directed  to 
me, — (it  was  my  weekly  inspection  at  the  Ledge). 

"  Can't  jam  nothin'  into  his  head,  sir.  Stubborn- 
est  mule  'round  this  harbor.  Warn't  for  that  wife 
o'  his  Abe  Marrows  would  a-been  high  and  dry  long 
ago.  Every  time  he  gits  something  purty  good  he 
goes  and  fools  it  away; — sold  his  farm  and  bought 
that  sloop ;  then  he  clapped  a  plaster  on  it  in  the  bank 
to  start  a  cook  shop.  But  the  wife's  all  right ; — only 
last  week  she  come  to  me  lookin'  like  she'd  bu'st  out 
cryin', — sayin'  the  sloop  was  all  they  had,  and  I 
promised  her  then  I'd  use  the  Susie,  but  she  never 
said  nothin'  'bout  Baxter  being  in  charge,  or  I'd 
stopped  him  'fore  he  loaded  her.  Well,  there  ain't  no 
tellin'  what  nat'ral  burn  fools  like  Abe  Marrows  '11 
do,  but  it's  something  ornery  and  criss-cross  if  Abe 
Marrows  does  it.     That  woman's  worked  her  fingers 

232 


CAPTAIN    JOE   AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 

off  for  him,  but  he'll  git  her  in  the  poor-house  jit,-— 
see  if  he  don't." 

Marrows  had  heard  every  word  of  Captain  Joe's 
outburst,  but  he  made  no  answer  except  to  lift  his  thin 
elbows  and  spread  his  fingers  in  a  deprecatory  way,  as 
if  in  protest.  Baxter  maintained  a  dogged  silence ; — 
the  least  said  in  answer  the  better.  Captain  Joe  Bell 
was  not  a  man  either  to  contradict  or  oppose ; — better 
let  him  blow  it  all  out.  Both  owner  and  skipper  deter- 
mined to  take  the  risk.  The  Susie  Ann  had  been  laid 
up  all  winter  awaiting  the  opening  of  the  spring  work, 
and  the  successful  carrying  out  of  the  present  venture 
was  Marrows's  only  escape  from  financial  ruin,  and 
Baxter's  only  chance  of  getting  his  back  wages, 
There  was  an  unpaid  bill,  too,  for  caulking,  then  a 
year  old,  lying  in  Abram's  bureau  drawer,  together 
with  an  account  at  Mike  Bavin's  machine  shop  for 
a  new  set  of  grate  bars,  now  almost  worn  out.  Worse 
than  all  the  bank's  lien  on  the  sloop  was  due  in  a  few 
weeks.  What  money  the  sloop  earned,  therefore, 
must  be  earned  quickly. 

And  then  again,  Abram  ruminated,  Shark  Ledge 
wasn't  the  worst  place  on  the  coast, — despite  Captain 
Joe's  warning, — especially  on  this  particular  morn- 
ing, when  a  light  wind  was  blowing  off  shore.  Plenty 
of  other  sloops  had  delivered  stone  over  their  rails 
to  the  divers  below.     Marrows  remembered  that  he 

233 


CAPTAIN    JOE   AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 

had  been  out  to  the  Ledge  himself  when  the 
Screamer  came  up  into  the  wind  and  crawled  slowly 
up  until  her  forefoot  was  within  a  biscuit  toss  of  the 
stone  pile. 

What  Marrows  forgot  was  that  Captain  Bob 
Brandt  of  Cape  Ann  had  then  held  the  spokes  of  the 
Screamer  s  wheel, — a  man  who  knew  every  twist  and 
turn  of  the  treacherous  tide. 

So  Baxter  shook  out  the  sloop's  jib  and  mainsail 
and  started  on  his  journey  eight  miles  seaward,  with 
orders  to  make  fast  on  arrival  to  the  spar  buoy  which 
lay  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the  Ledge,  and 
there  wait  until  the  tide  turned,  when  she  could  drop 
into  position  to  unload.  The  tug  with  all  of  us  on 
board  would  follow  when  we  had  taken  on  fresh  water 
and  coal. 

On  the  run  out  Captain  Joe  watched  the  sloop 
until  she  had  made  her  first  tack,  then  he  turned  to 
his  work  and  again  busied  himself  in  overhauling  his 
diving  dress;  tightening  the  set-screws  in  his  copper 
collar,  re-cording  his  breastplate  and  putting  new 
leather  thongs  in  his  leaden  shoes.  There  was  some 
stone  on  the  sloop's  deck  which  was  needed  to  com- 
plete a  level  down  among  the  black  fish  and  torn 
cod, — twenty-two  feet  down, — where  the  sea  kelp 
streamed  up  in  long  blades  above  the  top  of  his  helmet 

234 


CAPTAIN    JOE    AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 

and  the  rock  crabs  scurried  out  of  his  way.  If  Baxter 
didn't  make  a  "  tarnel  fool  of  himself  and  git  into 
one  o'  them  swirl-holes/7  he  intended  to  get  these 
stones  into  place  before  night. 

He  knew  these  "  holes/'  as  he  did  every  other  swirl 
around  the  ledge  and  what  they  could  do  and  what 
they  couldn't.  They  were  his  swirls,  really, — for  he 
had  placed  every  individual  fragment  of  the  obstruc- 
tions that  caused  them  with  his  own  hands,  in  thirty 
feet  of  water. 

Some  three  years  before  the  site  had  been  marked 
by  a  spindle  bearing  an  iron  cage  and  fastened  to  a 
huge  boulder  known  as  Shark  Ledge  Kock,  and  cov- 
ered at  low  water.  The  unloading  of  various  sloops 
and  schooners  under  his  orders  had  enlarged  this 
submerged  rock  to  a  miniature  island,  its  ragged 
crest  thrust  above  the  sea.  This  obstruction  to  the 
will  of  the  wind  and  tide,  and  the  ever-present  six- 
mile  current,  caused  by  the  narrowing  of  Long  Island 
Sound  in  its  onrush  to  the  sea,  acted  as  a  fallen  log 
that  blocks  a  mountain  stream,  or  a  boulder  that 
plugs  a  torrent.  That  which  for  centuries  had  been  a 
steady  "  set  "  every  six  hours  east  and  west,  had  now 
become  a  "  back-and-in  suck  "  fringed  by  a  series  of 
swirling  undercurrents  dealing  death  and  destruction 
to  the  ignorant  and  unwary. 

ISTot  been  long  since  a  schooner  loaded  with  con- 

235 


CAPTAIN    JOE   AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 

crete  had  been  saved  from  destruction  by  the  merest 
chance,  and  later  on  a  big  scow  caught  in  the  swirl 
had  parted  her  buoy  lines  and  would  have  landed 
high  and  dry  on  the  stone  pile  had  not  Captain  Joe 
rim  a  hawser  to  her,  twisted  its  bight  around  the  drum 
of  his  engine  and  warped  her  off  just  in  time  to  save 
her  bones  from  sea  worms. 

As  the  tug  approached,  the  Ledge,  looming  up  on 
the  dim  horizon  line,  looked  like  a  huge  whale 
spouting  derricks,  a  barnacle  of  a  shanty  clinging  to 
its  back.  Soon  there  rose  into  relief  the  little  knot  of 
men  gathered  about  one  of  the  whale's  fins — our 
landing  stage, — and  then,  as  we  came  alongside,  the 
welcome  curl  of  the  smoke,  telling  of  fried  pork  and 
saleratus  biscuit. 

Captain  Joe's  orders  now  came  thick  and  fast. 

"  Hurry  dinner,  Nichols," — this  to  the  shanty 
cook,  who  was  leaning  out  of  the  galley  window, — 
"  And  here, — three  or  four  o'  ye,  git  this  divin'  stuff 
ashore,  and  then  all  hands  to  dinner.  The  wind's 
ag'in  Baxter, — he  won't  git  here  for  an  hour. 
Startin'  on  one  o'  them  long  legs  o'  his'n  now," — and 
the  captain's  eye  rested  on  the  sloop  beating  up 
'  Fisher's  Island  way. 

"  And,  Billy, — 'fore  ye  go  ashore,  jump  into  the 
yawl  and  take  a  look  at  that  snatch  block  on  the  spar 
buoy, — that  clam  digger  may  want  it  'fore  night." 

236 


CAPTAIN    JOE    AND    THE    SUSIE   ANN 

This  spar  buoy  lay  a  few  hundred  yards  off  the 
Whale's  Snout.  Loaded  vessels  were  moored  to  this 
quill  bob,  held  in  place  by  a  five-ton  sinker,  until 
they  were  ready  to  drop  into  the  eddy  and  there  dis- 
charge their  stone. 

Dinner  over  the  men  fell  to  work,  each  to  his  job. 
The  derrick  gang  was  set  to  shifting  a  boom  on  to  the 
larger  derrick,  the  concrete  mixers  picked  up  their 
shovels,  and  I  went  to  work  on  the  pay-roll  of  the 
week.  This  I  always  figured  up  in  the  little  dry- 
goods  box  of  a  room  opening  out  of  the  galley  in  the 
end  of  our  board  shanty,  its  window  looking  toward 
Montauk. 

As  I  leaned  my  arms  on  the  sill  for  a  glimpse  of 
the  wide  expanse  of  blue  and  silver,  the  cotton  rag 
that  served  as  a  curtain  flapped  in  my  face.  I  pushed 
it  aside  and  craned  my  neck  north  and  south.  The 
curtain  had  acted  as  a  weather  vane, — the  wind  had 
hauled  to  the  east. 

The  sky,  too,  had  dulled.  Little  lumpy  clouds 
showed  near  the  horizon  line,  and,  sailing  above  these, 
hung  a  dirt  spot  of  vapor,  while  aloft  glowed  some 
prismatic  sundogs,  shimmering  like  opals.  Etched 
against  the  distance,  with  a  tether  line  fastened  to  the 
spar  buoy,  lay  the  Susie  Ann.  She  had  that  moment 
arrived  and  had  made  fast.  Her  sails  were  furled, 
her  boom  swinging  loose  and  ready,  the  smoke  from 

237 


CAPTAIN    JOE   AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 

her  hoister  curling  from  the  end  of  her  smoke  pipe 
thrust  up  out  of  the  forward  hatch. 

Then  I  looked  closer  in. 

Below  me,  on  the  concrete  platform,  rested  our 
big  air  pump,  and  beside  it  stood  Captain  Joe.  He 
had  slipped  into  his  diving  dress  and  was  at  the 
moment  adjusting  the  breastplates  of  lead,  weighing 
twenty-five  pounds  each,  to  his  chest  and  back.  His 
leaden  shoes  were  already  on  his  feet.  With  the 
exception  of  his  copper  helmet,  the  signal  line  around 
his  wrist,  and  the  life  line  about  his  waist,  he  was 
ready  to  go  under  water. 

Pretty  soon  he  would  don  his  helmet,  and,  with 
a  last  word  to  Jimmy,  his  tender,  would  tuck  his  chin 
whisker  inside  the  round  opening,  wait  until  the  face 
plate  was  screwed  on,  and  then,  with  a  cheerful  nod 
behind  the  glass,  denoting  that  his  air  was  coming  all 
right,  would  step  down  his  rude  ladder  into  the  sea, — ■ 
down, — down, — down  to  his  place  among  the  crabs 
and  the  seaweed. 

Suddenly  my  ears  became  conscious  of  a  conversa- 
tion carried  on  in  a  low  tone  around  the  corner  of  the 
shanty. 

"  Old  Moon-face'll  have  to  git  up  and  git  in  a 
minute/'  said  a  derrick  man  to  a  shoveller, — born 
sailors,  these, — "  there'll  be  a  red-hot  time  'round 
here  'fore  night." 

238 


CAPTAIN   JOE   AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 


?? 


"  Well,  there  ain't  no  wind.' 

"  Ain't  no  wind, — ain't  there  ?  See  that  bobble 
waltzin'  in  ? " 

I  looked  seaward,  and  my  eyes  rested  on  a 
ragged  line  of  silver  edging  the  horizon  toward 
Montauk. 

"  Does  look  soapy,  don't  it  ?  "  answered  the  shov- 
eller.    "  Wonder  if  Cap'n  Joe  sees  it." 

Cap'n  Joe  had  seen  it — fifteen  minutes  ahead  of 
anybody  else, — had  been  watching  it  to  the  exclusion 
of  any  other  object.  He  knew  the  sea, — knew  every 
move  of  the  merciless,  cunning  beast ;  had  watched 
it  many  a  time,  lvins;  in  wait  for  its  chance  to  tear 
and  strangle.  More  than  once  had  he  held  on  to  the 
rigging  when,  with  a  lash  of  its  tail,  it  had  swept 
a  deck  clean,  or  had  stuck  to  the  pumps  for  days 
while  it  sucked  through  opening  seams  the  life- 
blood  of  his  helpless  craft.  The  game  here  would  be 
to  lift  its  victim  on  the  back  of  a  smooth  under- 
roller  and  with  mighty  effort  hurl  it  like  a  battering 
ram  against  the  shore  rocks,  shattering  its  timbers 
into  drift  wood. 

"  Billy,"  said  Captain  Joe  to  the  shoveller,  "  go 
down  to  the  edge  of  the  stone  pile  and  holler  to  the 
sloop  to  cast  off  and  make  for  home.  Hurry,  now ! 
And,  Jimmy," — this  to  his  pump  tender, — "  unhook 
this  breastplate, — there  won't  be  no   divin',  today. 

239 


CAPTAIN   JOE   AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 

I've  been  inistrustin'  the  wind  would  haul  ever  since 
I  got  up  this  mornin'." 

The  shoveller  sprang  from  the  platform  and  began 
clambering  over  the  slippery,  slimy  rocks  like  a  crab, 
his  red  shirt  marked  with  the  white  "  X  "  of  his 
suspenders  in  relief  against  the  blue  water.  When  he 
reached  the  outermost  edge  of  the  stone  pile,  where 
the  ten-ton  blocks  lay,  he  made  a  megaphone  of  hia 
fingers  and  repeated  the  captain's  orders  to  the  Susie 
Ann. 

Baxter  listened  with  his  hands  cupped  to  his  ears. 

"  Who  says  so  ?  "  came  back  the  reply. 

"  Cap'n  Joe." 

"  What  fur  ?  " 

"  Goin'  to  blow, — don't  ye  see  it  ?  " 

Baxter  stepped  gingerly  along  the  sloop's  rail. 
Obeying  the  order  meant  twenty-four  hour's  delay 
in  making  sure  of  his  wages, — perhaps  a  week,  spring 
weather  being  uncertain.  He  didn't  "  see  no  blow." 
Besides,  if  there  was  one  coming,  it  wasn't  his 
sloop  or  his  stone.  When  he  reached  the  foot 
of  the  bowsprit  Moon-face  sent  this  answer  over 
the  water: 

"  Let  her  blow  and  be  d !  This  sloop's  char- 
tered to  deliver  this  stone.  We've  got  steam  up  and 
the  stuff's  goin'  over  outside.  Get  your  divers  ready. 
I  ain't  shovin'  no  baby  carriage  and  don't  you  forgit 

240 


CAPTAIX    JOE    AND    THE    SUSIE   ANN 

it.    I'm  comin'  on !    Cast  off  that  buoy  line,  you," — - 
this  to  one  of  his  men. 

Captain  Joe  continued  stripping  off  his  leaden 
breastplate.  He  had  heard  his  order  repeated  and 
knew  that  it  had  been  given  correctly, — Baxter's  sub- 
sequent proceedings  did  not  interest  him.  If  he 
had  anything  to  say  in  answer  it  was  of  no  moment 
to  him.  His  word  was  law  on  the  Ledge ;  first,  because 
the  men  daily  trusted  their  lives  to  his  guidance,  and, 
second,  because  they  all  loved  him  with  a  love  hard 
for  a  landsman  to  understand,  especially  today,  when 
the  boss  and  the  gang  never,  by  any  possibility,  pull 
together. 

"  Baxter  says  he's  comin'  on,  sir,"  said  Billy,  when 
he  reached  the  captain's  side,  the  grin  on  his  sunburnt 
face  widening  until  its  two  ends  hooked  over  his  ears. 
Billy  had  heard  nothing  so  funny  for  weeks. 

"  Comin'  on?" 

"  That's  what  he  hollered.  Wants  you  to  git  ready 
to  take  his  stuff,  sir." 

I  was  out  of  the  shanty  now.  I  came  in  two 
jumps.  With  that  squall  rushing  from  the  eastward 
and  the  tide  making  flood,  any  man  who  would  leave 
the  protection  of  the  spar  buoy  for  the  purpose  of 
unloading  was  fit  for  a  lunatic  asylum. 

Captain  Joe  had  straightened  up  and  was  screen 
ing  his  eyes  with  his  hand  when  I  reached  his  side, 

241 


CAPTAIN    JOE    AND   THE   SUSIE   ANN 

his  gaze  rivetted  on  the  loosened  sloop,  which  had  now 
hauled  in  her  tether  line  and  was  drifting  clear  of  the 
buoy.     The  captain  was  still  incredulous. 

"  No,  he  ain't  comin',''  he  said  to  me.  "  He's  all 
right, — he'll  port  his  helm  in  a  minute, — but  he'd 
better  send  up  his  jib  " — and  he  swept  his  eye  around, 
— "  and  that  quick,  too." 

At  this  instant  the  sloop  wavered  and  lurched 
heavily.  The  outer  edge  of  the  insuck  had  caught 
her  bow. 

Men's  minds  work  quickly  in  times  of  great  danger, 
— minds  like  Captain  Joe's.  In  a  flash  he  had  taken 
in  the  fast-approaching  roller,  froth-capped  by  the 
sudden  squall ;  the  surging  vessel  and  the  scared  face 
of  Baxter,  who,  having  realized  his  mistake  was 
now  clutching  wildly  at  the  tiller  and  shouting  orders 
to  his  men,  none  of  which  could  be  carried  out. 
Captain  Joe  knew  what  would  happen, — what  had 
happened  before,  and  what  would  happen  again 
with  fools  like  Baxter, — now, — in  a  minute, — before 
he  could  reach  the  edge  of  the  stone  pile,  hampered 
as  he  was  in  a  rubber  suit  that  bound  his  arms  and 
tied  his  great  legs  together.  And  he  understood  too 
the  sea's  game,  and  that  the  only  way  to  outwit  it 
would  be  to  use  the  beast's  own  tactics.  When  it 
gathered  itself  for  the  thrust  and  started  in  to  hurl 
the  doomed  vessel  the  full  length  of  its  mighty  arms, 

242 


CAPTAIN    JOE    AND    THE    SUSIE   ANN 

the  sloop's  only  safety  lay  in  widening  the  space.  A 
cushion  of  backwater  would  then  receive  the  sloop's 
forefoot  in  place  of  the  snarling  teeth  of  low  crunch- 
ing rocks. 

He  had  kicked  off  both  shoes  by  this  time  and  was 
shouting  out  directions  to  Baxter,  who  was  slowly 
and  surely  being  sucked  into  the  swirl : — 

"  Up  with  your  jib !  No, — no!  Let  that  mainsail 
alone!  UP!  Do  ye  want  to  git  her  on  the  stone 
pile,  you?  Port  your  helm!  Port!  O  GOD!— 
Look  at  him ! !  " 

Captain  Joe  had  slid  from  the  platform  now  and 
was  flopping  his  great  body  over  the  slimy,  slippery 
rocks  like  a  seal,  falling  into  water  holes  every  other 
step,  crawling  out  on  his  belly,  rolling  from  one  slant- 
ing stone  to  another,  shouting  to  his  men,  every  time 
he  had  the  breath : — 

"  Man  that  yawl  and  run  a  line  as  quick  as  God'll 
let  ye — out  to  the  buoy!  Do  ye  hear?  Pull  that 
fall  off  the  drum  of  the  h'ister  and  git  the  end  of  a 
line  on  it !  She'll  be  on  top  of  us  in  a  minute  and 
the  mast  out  of  her !     Quick !  " 

Jimmy  sprang  for  a  coil  of  rope;  Billy  and  the 
others  threw  themselves  after  him ;  while  half  a  dozen 
men  working  around  the  small  eddy  in  the  lee  of  the 
diminutive  island  caught  up  the  oars  and  made  a 
dash  for  the  yawl. 

243 


CAPTAIN    JOE   AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 

All  this  time  the  sloop,  under  the  uplift  of  the  first 
big  Montauk  roller, — the  skirmish  line  of  the  attack, 
— surged,  bow  on,  to  destruction.  Baxter,  although 
shaking  with  fear,  had  sense  enough  left  to  keep  her 
nose  pointed  to  the  stone  pile.  The  mast  might  come 
out  of  her,  but  that  was  better  than  being  gashed 
amidships  and  sunk  in  thirty  feet  of  water. 

Captain  Joe,  his  rubber  suit  wet  and  glistening 
as  a  shiny  porpoise,  his  hair  matted  to  his  head,  had 
now  reached  the  outermost  rock  opposite  the  doomed 
craft,  and  stood  near  enough  to  catch  every  expression 
that  crossed  Baxter's  face,  who,  white  as  chalk,  was 
holding  the  tiller  with  all  his  strength,  cap  off,  his 
blousy  hair  flying  in  the  increasing  gale,  his  mouth 
tight  shut.  Go  ashore  she  must.  It  would  be  every 
man  for  himself  then.  No  help  would  come, — no 
help  could  come.  Captain  Joe  and  his  men  would 
run  for  shelter  as  soon  as  the  blow  fell,  and  leave 
them  to  their  fate.  Men  like  Baxter  are  built  to  think 
this  way. 

All  these  minutes — seconds,  really, — Captain  Joe 
stood  bending  forward,  watching  where  the  sloop 
would  strike,  his  hands  outstretched  in  the  attitude 
of  a  ball-player  awaiting  a  ball.  If  her  nose  should 
hit  the  sharp,  square  edges  of  one  of  the  ten-ton 
blocks,  God  help  her!  She  would  split  wide  open 
like  a  melon.     If  by  any  chance  her  forefoot  should 

244 


CAPTAIN    JOE   AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 

be  thrust  into  one  of  the  many  gaps  between  the 
enrockment  blocks, — spaces  from  two  to  three  feet 
wide, — and  her  bow  timbers  thus  take  the  shock,  there 
was  a  living  chance  to  save  her. 

A  cry  from  Baxter,  who  had  dropped  the  tiller  and 
was  scrambling  over  the  stone-covered  deck  to  the 
bowsprit,  reached  the  captain's  ears,  but  he  never 
altered  his  position.  What  he  was  to  do  must  be  done 
surely.  Baxter  didn't  count, — wasn't  in  the  back  of 
his  head.  There  were  plenty  of  willing  hands  to  pick 
up  Baxter  and  his  men. 

Then  a  thing  happened  which,  if  I  had  not  seen  it, 
I  would  never  have  believed  possible.  The  water 
cushion  of  the  outsuck  helped, — so  did  the  huge  roller 
which,  in  its  blind  rage,  had  underestimated  the  dis- 
tance between  its  lift  and  the  wide-open  jaws  of  the 
rock, — as  a  maddened  bull  often  underestimates 
the  length  of  its  thrust,  its  horns  falling  short  of  the 
matador. 

Whatever  the  cause,  Captain  Joe  watched  his 
chance,  sprang  to  the  outermost  rock,  and,  bracing 
his  great  snubbing  posts  of  legs  against  its  edge, 
reversed  his  body,  caught  the  wavering  sloop  on  his 
broad  shoulders,  close  under  her  bowsprit  chains,  and 
pushed  back  with  all  his  might. 

Then  began  a  struggle  between  the  strength  of  the 
man  and  the  lunge  of  the  sea.    With  every  succeeding 

245 


CAPTAIN   JOE   AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 

onslaught,  and  before  the  savage  roller  could  fully 
lift  the  staggering  craft  to  hurl  her  to  destruction, 
Captain  Joe,  with  the  help  of  the  outsuck,  would 
shove  her  back  from  the  waiting  rocks.  This  was 
repeated  again  and  again, — the  men  in  the  rescuing 
yawl  meanwhile  bending  every  muscle  to  carry  out 
the  captain's  commands. 

Sometimes  his  head  was  free  enough  to  shout  his 
orders,  and  sometimes  both  man  and  bow  were 
smothered  in  suds. 

Keep  that  fall  clear !  "  would  come  his  order 

Stand  ready  to  catch  the  yawl !  Shut  that — "  here 
a  souse  would  stop  his  breath, — "  shut  that  furnace 
door !  Do  ye  want  the  steam  out  of  the  b'iler  ?  " — 
etc.,  etc. 

That  the  slightest  misstep  on  the  slimy  rocks  on 
which  his  feet  were  braced  meant  sending  him  under 
the  sloop's  bow  where  he  would  be  caught  between  her 
forefoot  and  the  rocks  and  ground  into  pulp  concerned 
him  as  little  as  did  the  fact  that  Baxter  and  his  men 
had  crawled  along  the  bowsprit  over  his  head  and  had 
dropped  to  the  island  without  wetting  their  shoes. 
That  his  diving  suit  was  full  of  water  and  he  soak- 
ing wet  to  the  skin,  made  not  the  slightest  difference 
to  him — no  more  than  it  would  to  a  Newfoundland 
dog  saving  a  child.  His  thoughts  were  on  other 
things, — on  the  rescuing  yawl  speeding  toward  the 

246 


CAPTAIN    JOE   AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 

spar  buoy,  on  the  stout  hands  and  knowing  ones  who 
were  pulling  for  all  they  were  worth  to  that  anchor 
of  safety ; — on  two  of  his  own  men  who,  seeing  Bax- 
ter's cowardly  desertion,  had  sprung  like  cats  at  the 
bowsprit  of  the  sloop  in  one  of  her  dives,  and  were 
then  on  the  stern  ready  to  pay  out  a  line  to  the  yawl 
when  she  reached  the  goal.  Xo. — he'd  hold  on  "  till 
hell  froze  over." 

A  hawser  now  ripped  itself  clear  from  out  the  crest 
of  a  roller.  This  meant  that  the  two  cats,  despite  the 
increasing  gale  and  thrash  of  the  onrushing  sea  had 
succeeded  in  paying  out  a  stern  line  to  the  men  in 
the  yawl,  who  had  slipped  it  through  the  snatch  block 
fastened  in  the  buoy.  It  meant,  too,  that  this  line 
had  been  connected  with  the  line  they  had  brought 
with  them  from  the  island,  its  far  end  being  around 
the  drum  of  our  hoister. 

A  shrill  cry  now  came  from  one  of  the  crew  in  the 
yawl  alongside  the  spar  buoy,  followed  instantly  by 
the  clear,  ringing  order,  "  GO  AHEAD !  ': 
i  Now  a  burst  of  feathery  steam  plumed  skyward, 
and  then  the  slow  "  chuggity-chug  "  of  our  drum  cogs 
rose  in  the  air.  The  stern  line  straightened  until  it 
was  as  rigid  as  a  bar  of  iron,  sagged  for  an  instant 
under  the  slump  of  the  staggering  sloop,  straightened 
again,  and  remained  rigid.  The  sloop,  held  by  the 
stern  line,  crept  slowly  back  to  safety. 

247 


CAPTAIN    JOE   AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 

Captain  Joe  looked  over  his  shoulder,  noted  the 
widening  distance,  and  leaped  back  to  the  inshore 
rocks. 

Late  that  afternoon,  when  the  tug,  with  Captain 
Joe  and  me  on  board,  reached  the  tug's  moorings/ 
in  New  London  harbor,  the  dock  was  crowded  with 
anxious  faces, — Abram  Marrows  and  his  wife  among 
them.  It  had  been  an  anxious  day  along  the  shore 
road.  The  squall,  which  had  blown  for  half  an  hour 
and  had  then  slunk  away  toward  Little  Gull,  grum- 
bling as  it  went,  had  sent  everything  that  could  seek 
shelter  bowling  into  New  London  Harbor  under  close 
reefs.  It  had  also  started  Marrows  and  his  wife  on 
a  run  to  the  dock,  where  they  had  stood  for  hours 
straining  their  eyes  seaward,  each  incoming  vessel, 
as  she  swooped  past  the  dock  into  the  inner  basin, 
adding  to  their  anxiety. 

"  Wouldn't  give  a  keg  o'  sp'ilt  fish  for  her.    Ain't 
a   livin'   chance   o'   savin'   her,"   had   bellowed  the 
captain  of  a  fishing  smack,  as  he  swept  by,  within 
biscuit-toss  of  the  dock,   his  boom   submerged,   the* 
water  curling  over  the  rail. 

"  She  went  slap  ag'in  them  chunks  o'  cut  stone! ,: 
shouted  the  mate  of  a  tug  through  the  window  of  a 
pilot  house. 

"  Got  her  off  with  her  bow  split  open,  but  they 

248 


CAPTAIX    JOE    AND    THE    SUSIE   ANN 

can't  keep  her  free!  Sunk  by  now,  I  guess,"  had 
yelled  one  of  the  crew  of  a  dory  making  for  the  ship- 
yard. 

As  each  bulletin  was  shouted  back  over  the  water 
in  answer  to  the  anxious  inquiries  of  Marrows,  the 
wife  would  clasp  her  fingers  the  tighter.  She  made  . 
no  moan  or  outburst.  Abram  would  blame  her  and 
say  it  was  her  fault, — everything  was  her  fault  that 
went  wrong. 

When  the  tug  had  made  fast  to  a  wharf  spile  Cap- 
tain Joe  cleared  the  stringpiece,  and  walked  straight 
to  Marrows.  He  was  still  soaking  wet  underneath  his 
clothes,  only  his  outer  garments  being  dry, — a  condi- 
tion which  never  affected  him  in  the  least,  "  salt 
water  bein'  healthy,"  he  would  say. 

"What  did  I  tell  ye,  Abram  Marrows?"  he 
exploded,  in  a  voice  that  could  be  heard  to  the  turn- 
pike. "  Didn't  I  say  Baxter  warn't  fitting  and  that 
he  ought  ter  be  grubbin'  clams  ?  Go  and  dig  a  hole 
some'er's  and  cover  him  up  head  and  ears, — and  dig 
it  quick,  too,  and  I'll  lend  ye  a  shovel." 

"  Well,  but,  Captain  Joe," — protested  Marrows. 
"Don't  you  'well'  me.     Well,  nothin'.     You're 
bad  as  him.     Go  and  dig  a  hole  and  both  on  ye  git 
in  it !  " — and  he  pushed  through  the  crowd  on  his 
way  to  his  house,  I  close  at  his  heels. 

The  wife,  who  but  that  moment  had  heard  the  glad 

249 


CAPTAIN    JOE   AND    THE   SUSIE   ANN 

news  of  the  rescue  from  the  lips  of  a  deck  hand,  now 
hurried  after  the  captain  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm.  Her  ejes  were  red  from  weeping;  strands  of 
gray  hair  strayed  over  her  forehead  and  cheeks ;  her 
lips  were  tightly  drawn;  the  anxiety  of  the  last  few 
hours  had  left  its  mark. 

"  Don't  go,  Captain  Joe,  till  I  kin  speak  to  ye," 
she  pleaded,  in  a  trembling  voice, — speaking  through 
fingers  pressed  close  to  her  lips. 

"  No, — I  don't  want  to  hear  nothin'.  She's  all 
right,  I  tell  ye, — tighter  'n  a  drum  and  not  a  drop 
of  water  in  her.  Got  some  of  my  men  aboard  and 
we'll  unload  her  to-morrow.  You  go  home,  old 
woman ;  you  needn't  worry." 

"  Yes,  but  you  must  listen, — please  listen." 

She  had  followed  him  up  the  dock  and  the  two 
stood  apart  from  the  crowd. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"  I  want  to  thank  ye, — and  I  want " 

"  No,  you  don't  want  to  thank  nothin'.  She's  all 
right,  I  tell  ye." 

She  had  tight  hold  of  his  arm  now  and  was 
looking  up  into  his  face,  all  her  gratitude  in  her 
»yes. 

"  But  I  do, — I  must, — please  listen.  YouVe 
helped  us  so.  It's  all  we  have.  If  we'd  lost  the  sloop 
I'd  'a'  give  up." 

250 


CAPTAIN    JOE    AND    THE    SUSIE   ANN 

The  captain's  rough,  hard  hand  went  out  and 
caught  the  woman's  thin  fingers.  A  peculiar  cadence 
came  into  his  voice. 

"  All  ye  have  ?  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  it  ? 
That's  why  I  was  under  her  bowsprit" 


251 


AGAINST  ORDERS 


M 


"AGAINST  ORDERS" 

"  Here  comes  Captain  Bogart — we'll  ask  him,* 
said  the  talkative  man. 

His  listeners  were  grouped  about  one  of  the  small 
tables  in  the  smoking-room  of  the  Moldavia,  five  days 
out.  The  question  was  when  the  master  of  a  vessel 
should  leave  his  ship.  In  the  incident  discussed 
every  man  had  gone  ashore — even  the  life-saving 
crew  had  given  her  up :  the  master  had  stuck  to  his 
post. 

The  captain  listened  gravely. 

"  Yes — if  there's  one  chance  in  a  thousand  of  sav- 
ing her.  Regulations  are  pretty  plain;  can't  forget 
'em  unless  you  want  to,"  and  he  walked  on. 

That  night  at  dinner  I  received  a  message  to  come 
to  the  captain's  cabin.  He  had  some  coffee  that  an 
old  Brazilian  had  sent  him.  His  steward  hailed  from 
Bio,  and  knew  how  to  grind  and  boil  it. 

Over  the  making  the  talk  veered  to  the  inquiry  in 
the  smoking-room. 

"  When  ought  a  commander  to  abandon  his  ship, 
Captain  ?  "  I  asked. 

255 


"AGAIJSTST    OKDEKS" 

"  When  his  passengers  need  him.  Passengers  first, 
ship  next,  are  the  orders.  They're  clear  and  exact — 
can't  mistake  'em." 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  had  had  some  experience." 
A  leaf  from  out  the  note-book  of  a  live  man  doing 
live  things  is  as  refreshing  as  a  bucket  of  cool  water 
from  a  deep  well. 

"  Experience  !    Been  forty  years  at  sea." 

"  Some  of  them  pretty  exciting,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes.    Half  a  dozen  of  'em." 

He  emptied  his  cup,  rose  from  his  seat,  and  push- 
ing back  his  chair,  began  pacing  the  floor,  stepping 
into  the  connecting  chart-room,  bending  for  an  instant 
over  the  map,  and  stepping  back  again,  peering 
through  the  small  window  a-grime  with  the  spray  of 
&  north-easter. 

My  question,  I  could  see,  had  either  revived  some 
unpleasant  memory  or  the  anxiety  due  to  the  sudden 
shift  of  wind — it  had  been  blowing  south-west  all  day 
— had  made  him  restless. 

As  my  eyes  followed  his  movements  I  began  to 
realize  the  enormous  size  of  the  man.  Walking  the 
deck,  head  up,  body  erect,  his  broad  shoulders  pulled 
back,  his  round,  solid  girth  tightly  confined  in  his 
simple  uniform,  he  looked  the  brawny,  dominant, 
forceful  commander  that  he  wras — big  among  the 
'biggest  passengers.     Here,  pacing  the  small  cabin, 

256 


"AGAINST    ORDERS" 

his  head  almost  touching  the  ceiling,  his  great  frame 
filled  the  small  narrow  room  as  an  elephant  would 
fill  a  boudoir.  Everything  seemed  too  small  for  him 
— the  table,  even  the  chair  which  he  had  now  re- 
gained, the  tiny  egg-shell  cup  which  he  was  still 
grasping. 

Looking  closer — his  head  in  full  profile  against 
the  glow  of  the  electric  light — I  caught  the  straight 
line  of  the  ruddy,  seamed  neck — a  bull's  neck  in 
strength,  a  Greek  athlete's  in  refinement  of  line — 
sweeping  up  into  the  close-cropped,  iron-gray  hair. 
Then  came  the  round  of  the  head;  the  massive  fore- 
head, strong,  straight  nose;  thin,  compressed  lips, 
moulded  thin  and  kept  compressed  by  a  life  of 
determined  effort;  square-cut  chin  and  the  iron  jaw 
that  held  the  lips  and  chin  in  place. 

When  he  rose  to  his  feet  again  I  had  another 
surprise.  To  my  astonishment  he  was  not  a  Colossus 
at  all — not  in  pounds  and  inches.  On  the  contrary, 
he  was  but  little  above  the  average  size.  What 
had  impressed  me  had  not  been  his  bulk,  but  his 
reserve  force.  Tigers  stretched  out  in  cages  produce 
this  effect ;  so  do  powerful  machines  that  dig,  crunch, 
or  pound — dormant  until  their  life-steam  sets  them 
going. 

The  gale  increased  in  violence.  We  got  now  the 
lift  of  the  steamer's  bow,  staggering  under  tons  oi 

257 


"AGAINST    OBDEKS" 

water,  and  the  whir  of  the  screw  in  mid-air.  The 
captain  glanced  at  the  barometer,  drew  his  body  to  its 
full  height,  reached  for  his  storm-coat,  slipped  it  on, 
and  was  about  to  swing  back  the  door  opening  on  the 
deck,  when  the  chirp  of  a  canary  rang  through  the 
room.  At  the  sound  he  turned  quickly  and  walked 
back  to  where  the  cage  hung. 

"  Ho,  little  man !  "  he  cried  in  the  same  tone  of 
voice  in  which  he  would  have  addressed  a  child; 
"  woke  you  up,  did  we  ?  Sorry,  old  fellow ;  tuck  your 
head  down  again  and  take  another  nap." 

The  bird  stretched  out  its  bill,  fluttered  its  wings, 
pecked  at  the  captain's  outstretched  finger,  and  burst 
into  song. 

"  Yours,  captain  ? "  I  had  not  noticed  the  bird 
before. 

"  Yes ;  had  him  for  years." 

Instantly  the  absurdity  of  the  companionship  broke 
upon  me.  What  possible  comfort,  I  thought,  could 
a  man  like  the  captain  take  in  so  tiny  a  creature? 
It  was  the  lion  and  the  mouse  over  again — the  eagle 
and  the  tom-tit — the  bear  and  the  rabbit.  He  must 
have  noticed  my  surprise  and  amusement,  for  he 
added  with  a  smile : 

"  Must  have  something.  Gets  pretty  lonesome 
sometimes  when  you  have  no  wife  nor  children,  and 
there  are  none  anywheres  for  me."     He  had  with- 

258 


"AGAIXST    ORDERS" 

drawn  his  fingers  now,  and  was  buttoning  his  coat 
close  abont  his  broad  chest,  his  eyes  still  on  the  bird 
that  was  splitting  its  little  throat  in  a  burst  of  song. 

"  But  he's  so  small/'  I  laughed.  "  I  should  think 
you'd  have  a  dog — seems  nearer  your  size." 

I  once  saw  a  man  struck  by  a  spent  bullet.  I 
remember  the  sudden  pallor,  the  half  gasp,  and  the 
expression  of  pain  that  followed.  Then  the  man 
uttered  a  cry.  The  same  expression  crossed  the  cap- 
tain's face,  but  there  was  no  gasp  and  no  cry;  only 
a  straightening  of  the  lips  and  a  tightening-up  of  the 
iron  jaw.  Then,  without  a  word  of  any  kind  in 
answer,  he  caught  up  his  cap,  swung  back  the  door, 
and  with  the  wind  full  on  his  chest,  breasted  his  way 
to  the  bridge. 

When  the  door  swung  open  a  moment  later  it 
closed  on  the  first  ofiicer — a  square,  thick-set,  round- 
headed  man,  with  mild  blue  eyes  set  in  a  face  framed 
by  a  half-circle  of  reddish-brown  whiskers,  the  face 
tanned  by  twenty-five  years  of  sea  service,  fifteen  of 
them  with  Captain  Bogart. 

"  Getting  soapy,"  he  said ;  "  wind  haulin'  to  the 
veast'ard.  Goin'  to  have  a  nasty  night."  As  he  spoke 
he  stripped  off  his  tarpaulins,  hung  them  to  a  hook 
in  the  chart-room,  and  wiping  the  salt  grime  from 
his  face  with  his  coat  cuff,  took  the  captain's  empty 
seat  at  the  table. 

259 


"AGAINST    OKDEKS" 

I  knew  by  the  captain's  silent  departure  that  I 
had  made  a  break  of  some  kind,  but  I  could  not  locate 
it.    Perhaps  the  first  officer  might  explain. 

"  Captain  lost  his  wife,  didn't  he  ? "  I  asked, 
moving  my  chair  to  make  room. 

"  ~No — never  had  one."  He  leaned  forward  and 
filled  one  of  the  empty  cups.  "  Why  did  you 
think  so  ?  " 

"  Well,  more  from  the  tone  of  his  voice  than 
anything  else.    Some  trouble  about  it,  wasn't  there  ?  " 

"  There  was.  His  sweetheart  was  burned  to  death 
ten  years  ago — lamp  got  upset."  These  men  are 
direct  in  their  speech.  It  comes  from  their  life-long 
habit  of  giving  short,  crisp,  meaning  orders.  He  had 
reached  for  the  sugar  now,  and  was  dropping  the 
lumps  slowly  into  his  cup. 

"  That  explains  it,  then,"  I  answered.  "  We  were 
talking  about  the  bird  over  there,  and  he  said  a  man 
must  have  something  to  love,  being  without  wife  or 
children,  and  then  I  told  him  a  big  man  like  himself, 
I  should  think,  would  rather  have  a  dog "  . 

The  first  officer  put  down  his  cup,  jerked  his  body 
around,  and  said,  his  blue  eyes  looking  into  mine : 

"  You  didn't  say  that,  did  you  \  " 

I  nodded  my  head. 

"  Mighty  sorry.  Don't  any  of  us  talk  to  him  of  his 
dog.     What  did  he  say  ?  " 

260 


"AGAIXST    ORDEKS" 

"  Xothing.    Turned  a  little  pale,  got  up,  and  went 

out." 

"  Too  bad !     You  didn't  know,   of  course — wish 

I'd  posted  you.77 

"  Then  he  did  have  a  dog  1  v 

"  Yes,  belonged  to  that  poor  girl.77 

"  What  became  of  him  ? 77 

The  first  officer  leaned  over  the  table  and  rested 
his  elbows  on  the  cloth,  his  chin  in  the  palms  of  his 
hands.  For  some  time  he  did  not  speak.  Outside  I 
could  hear  the  thrash  of  the  sea  and  the  slosh  of  spent 
waves  coursing  through  the  deck  gutters. 

"  You  want  to  hear  about  that  dog,  do  you  ? 77  he 
asked,  straightening  up.  "  Well,  I  can  tell  you  if 
any  man  can,  but  you7re  to  keep  mum  about  it  to  the 
captain.77 

Again  I  nodded. 

He  fumbled  in  his  outside  pocket,  drew  forth  a 
short  pipe,  rapped  out  the  dead  ashes,  refilled  it 
slowly  from  a  pouch  on  the  table,  lighted  it,  and 
settled  himself  in  his  chair. 

"  I'll  begin  at  the  beginning,  for  then  you7ll  under- 
stand how  I  came  to  be  mixed  up  in  it.  I  saw  that 
dog  when  he  first  came  aboard,  and  I  want  to  say  right 
here  that  the  sight  of  him  raised  a  lump  in  my  throat 
big  as  your  fist,  for  he  was  just  the  mate  of  the  one 
I  owned  when  I  used  to  look  after  my  fathers  sheep 

261 


"AGAINST    OKDEKS" 

on  the  hills  where  we  lived.  Then,  again,  I  took  to 
him  because  he  wasn't  the  kind  of  a  pet  I'd  ever  seen 
at  sea  before — we'd  had  monkeys  and  parrots  and  a 
bobtail  cat,  but  never  a  dog — not  a  real,  human  dog. 

"  He  was  one  of  those  brown-and-white  combed- 
out  collies  we  have  up  in  my  country,  with  a  long, 
pointed  nose  that  could  smell  a  mile  and  eyes  like 
your  mother's — they  were  so  soft  and  tender.  One 
of  those  dogs  that  when  he  put  his  cold  nose  alongside 
your  cheek  and  snuffed  around  your  whiskers  you 
loved  him — you  couldn't  help  it — and  you  knew  he 
loved  you.  As  for  the  captain — the  dog  was  never 
three  feet  from  his  heels.  Night  or  day,  it  was  just 
the  same — up  on  the  bridge,  followin'  him  with  his 
eyes  every  time  he  turned,  or  stretched  out  beside 
his  berth  when  he  was  asleep.  Hard  to  understand 
how  such  a  man  can  love  a  dog  until  you  saw  that 
one.  Then,  again,  this  dog  had  another  hold  upon 
the  captain,  for  the  girl  had  loved  him  just  the  same 
way. 

"  And  he  had  the  best  nose  in  a  fog — seemed  as  if 
he  could  sniff  things  as  they  went  by  or  came  on 
dead  ahead.  After  a  while  the  captain  would  send 
him  out  with  the  bow-watch  in  thick  weather,  and 
there  he'd  crouch,  his  nose  restin'  on  the  rail,  his  eyes 
peerin'  ahead.  Once  he  got  on  to  a  brigantine  comin' 
bow  on  minutes  before  the  lookout  could  see  her — 

262 


"AGAIXST    ORDERS  " 

smelt  her,  the  men  said,  just  as  he  used  to  smell  the 
sheep  lost  on  the  hillside  at  home.  It  was  thick  as 
mud — one  of  those  pasty  fogs  that  choke  you  like 
hot  steam.  We  had  three  men  in  the  cro'nest  and  two 
for'ard  hangin'  over  her  how-rail.  The  dog  began  to 
grow  restless.  Then  his  ears  went  up  and  his  tail 
straightened  out,  and  he  began  to  growl  as  if  he  had 
seen  another  dog.  The  captain  was  listenin'  from 
the  bridge,  and  he  suspected  soniethm'  was  wrong 
and  rang  '  Slow  down!  '  just  in  time  to  save  us  from 
smashing  bow  on  into  that  brigantine.  Another  time 
he  rose  on  his  hind  legs  and  c  let  out '  a  yelp  that 
peeled  everybody's  eyes.  Then  the  slippery,  barnacle 
covered  bottom  of  a  water-logged  derelict  went 
scootin'  by  a  few  yards  oft  our  starboard  quarter. 
After  that  the  men  got  to  dependin'  on  him — '  Ought 
to  have  a  first  mate's  pay,'  I  used  to  tell  the  captain, 
at  which  he  would  laugh  and  pat  the  dog  on  the 
head. 

"  One  morning  about  eight  bells,  some  two  hundred 
miles  off  Rio — we  were  'board  the  Zampa,  one  of  our 
South  American  line,  with  eighteen  first-class  pas- 
sengers, half  of  'em  women,  and  ten  or  twelve  emi- 
grants— when  word  came  to  the  bridge  that  a  fire 
,  had  started  in  the  cargo.  We  had  a  lot  of  light 
freight  on  board  and  some  explosives  which  were  to 
be  used  in  the  mines  in  the  mountains  off  the  coast, 

263 


"  AGAINST    ORDERS" 

so  fire  was  the  last  thing  we  wanted.  Bayard — did  I 
tell  you  the  dog's  name  was  Bayard? — that's  what 
the  girl  called  him — was  on  the  bridge  with  Captain 
Bogart.  I  was  asleep  in  my  bunk.  First  thing  I 
knew  I  felt  the  dog's  cold  nose  in  my  face,  and  the 
next  thins:  I  was  on  the  dead  run  for  the  after-hatch. 
I've  had  it  big  and  ugly  a  good  many  times  in  my 
life;  was  washed  upon  a  pile  of  rocks  once  stickin' 
up  about  a  cable's  length  off  our  coast,  and  hung  to 
the  cracks  until  I  dropped  into  a  lifeboat;  and 
another  time  I  was  picked  up  for  dead  off  Natal  and 
rolled  on  a  barrel  till  I  came  to.  But  that  racket 
aboard  the  Zampa  was  the  worst  yet. 

"  When  I  jumped  in  among  the  men  the  smoke 
was  creepin'  out  between  the  lids  of  the  hatch.  We 
ripped  that  off  and  began  diggin'  up  the  cargo — 
crates  of  chairs,  rolls  of  mattin',  some  spruce  scant- 
ling— runnin'  the  nozzle  of  the  hose  down  as  far  as 
we  could  get  it.  There  were  no  water-tight  compart- 
ments which  we  could  have  flooded  in  those  days  as 
there  are  now,  or  we  could  have  smothered  it  first 
off.  What  we  had  to  do  was  to  fight  it  inch  by  inch. 
I  knew  where  the  explosives  were,  and  so  did  the 
captain  and  purser,  but  the  crew  didn't — didn't  even 
know  they  were  aboard,  and  I  was  glad  they  didn't. 
WTe  had  picked  most  of  'em  up  at  Rio — or  they'd 
made  a  rush  maybe  for  the  boats,  and  then  we'd  had 

264 


"AGAINST    ORDERS" 

to  shoot  one  or  two  of  'em  to  teach  the  others  manners. 
In  addition  to  every  foot  of  hose  we  had  'board  I 
started  a  line  of  buckets  and  then  rushed  a  gang  below 
to  cut  through  the  bulkhead  to  see  if  we  could  get  at 
the  stuff  better. 

"  The  men  fell  to  with  a  will.  Fire  ain't  so  bad 
when  you  take  hold  of  it  in  time,  and  as  long  as  there 
is  plenty  of  steam  pressure — and  there  was — you  can 
almost  always  get  on  top  of  it,  unless  something  turns 
up  you  don't  count  on. 

"  That's  what  happened  here.  I  was  standin'  on 
the  coamings  of  the  hatch  at  the  time,  peerin'  down 
into  the  smoke  and  steam,  thinking  the  fire  was 
nearly  out,  directing  the  men  what  to  h'ist  out  and 
what  to  leave,  when  first  thing  I  knew  there  came 
a  dull,  heavy  thump,  as  if  we'd  struck  a  rock 
amidships,  and  up  puffed  a  cloud  of  smoke  and 
sparks  that  keeled  me  over  on  my  back  and  nearly 
blinded  me. 

"  I  knew  then  that  the  fire  had  just  begun  to  take 
hold;  that  thump  might  have  been  a  cask  of  rum  or 
it  might  have  been  a  box  of  nitro-glycerine.  What- 
ever it  was,  there  was  no  time  to  waste  in  stoppin' 
the  blaze  before  it  reached  the  rest  of  the  cargo. 

"  Captain  Bogart  had  felt  the  shock  and  now  came 
runnin'  down  the  deck  with  the  dog  at  his  heels.  He 
knew  I'd  take  care  of  the  fire  and  he  hadn't  left  the 

265 


"AGAINST    OKDEES" 

bridge,  but  the  way  she  shook  and  heaved  under  the 
explosion  was  another  thing. 

"  By  this  time  the  passengers  were  huddled  to- 
gether on  the  upper  deck,  frightened  to  death,  as 
they  always  are,  the  women  the  coolest  in  the  crowd. 
All  except  two  little  old  women,  sisters,  who  lived 
out  of  Rio  and  who  had  been  with  us  before.  Fire 
was  one  of  the  things  that  scared  them  to  death,  and 
they  certainly  were  scared.  They  hung  to  the  rail, 
their  arms  around  each  other — the  two  together  didn't 
weigh  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds ;  always  reminded 
me  of  two  shiverin'  little  monkeys,  these  two  old 
women,  although  maybe  it  ain't  nice  for  me  to  say 
it — and  looked  down  over  the  rail  into  the  sea,  and 
said  they  never  could  go  down  the  ladder,  and  did 
all  the  things  badly  scared  women  do,  short  of  pitch- 
ing themselves  overboard,  which  sometimes  occurs. 
The  captain  stopped  and  talked  to  'em — told  'em  there 
was  no  danger — his  ears  open  all  the  time  for  another 
let- go,  and  the  dog  nosed  round  and  put  out  his  paw 
as  if  to  make  good  what  the  captain  had  promised. 

"  The  water  was  goin'  in  now  pretty  lively — all 
the  pumps  at  work — the  light  stuff  bein'  heaved  over- 
board as  fast  as  it  came  out.  By  dark  we'd  got  the 
fire  under  so  that  we  had  steam  where  before  we'd 
had  smoke  and  flame.  The  passengers  had  quieted 
down  and  some  of  'em  had  gone  back  to  their  state- 

266 


"AGAINST    OEDERS" 

rooms  to  get  their  things  together,  and  everything 
was  going  quiet  and  peaceable — this  was  about  nine 
o'clock — when  there  came  another  half-smothered 
explosion  and  the  stokers  began  crawlin'  up  like  rats. 
Then  the  chief  engineer  stumbled  out — no  hat  nor 
coat,  his  head  all  blood  where  a  flying  bolt  had  gashed  i 
him.  Some  of  her  bilge  plates  was  loose,  he  said,  and 
the  water  half  up  to  the  fire-boxes.  Next  a  column 
of  flame  came  pouring  out  of  her  companionway, 
which  crisped  up  four  of  our  boats  and  drove  every- 
body for'ard.    We  knew  then  it  was  all  up  with  us. 

"  The  captain  now  sent  every  man  to  the  boats — 
those  that  would  float — and  we  began  to  get  the  pas- 
sengers and  crew  together — about  sixty,  all  told. 
That's  pretty  nasty  business  at  any  time.  They're 
like  a  flock  of  sheep,  huddlin'  together,  some  wantin' 
to  stay  and  some  crazy  to  go ;  or  they  are  shiverin' 
with  fright  and  ready  to  knife  each  other — anything 
to  get  ahead  or  back  or  wherever  they  think  it  is 
safest.  This  time  most  of  'em  had  got  on  to  the 
explosives ;  they  knew  something  was  up,  either  with 
the  boilers  or  the  cargo,  and  every  one  of  them 
expected  to  be  blown  up  any  minute. 

"  I  stood  by  the  rail,  of  course,  and  had  told  off 
the  men  I  could  trust,  puttin'  'em  in  two  lines  to  let 
'em  through  one  at  a  time,  women  first,  then  the  old 
men,  and  so  on — same  old  story;  you've  seen  it,  no 

267 


"AGAINST    ORDERS" 

doubt — and  had  got  four  boats  overboard  and  filled 
— the  sea  was  pretty  cairn — and  three  of  'ein  away 
and  out  of  range  of  fallin'  pieces  if  she  did  take  a 
notion  to  let  go  suddenly,  when  the  dog  sprang  out 
of  the  door  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  leading  down  to 
the  main  deck,  barkin'  like  mad,  runnin'  up  to  the 
captain,  who  stood  just  behind  me,  pullin'  at  his 
trousers,  and  runnin'  back  again.  Then  a  yell  came 
from  the  boat  below  that  one  of  the  old  women  was 
missing:  it  was  her  sister.  One  half -crazy  man  said 
she'd  jumped  overboard — he  was  crowdin'  up  to  the 
rail  and  didn't  want  to  stop  for  anything — and 
another  said  she  had  gone  off  in  the  first  boat,  which 
I  knew  was  a  lie. 

"  '  Have  you  sent  them  both  down  ? '  asked  Captain 
Bogart. 

"  '  No,  sir ;  only  one,'  I  said — and  I  hadn't. 

"  Just  then  a  steward  stepped  up  with  a  bundle 
of  clothing  in  his  hand. 

"  '  I  tried  to  get  her  out,  but  she'd  locked  herself 
in  the  stateroom,  sir.  It  was  all  afire  when  I 
come  up.' 

u  It  took  about  two  seconds  for  Captain  Bogart 
to  jump  clear  of  the  crowd,  run  half  the  length  of  the 
deck  and  plunge  through  the  door  leadin'  to  the  main 
deck,  the  dog  boundin'  after  him. 

"  I've  been  through  a  good  many  anxious  minutes 

268 


"AGAIXST    OEDEKS" 

in  my  life,  hut  those  were  the  worst  I'd  had  up  to 
date.  He  and  I  had  been  pretty  close  ever  since  I 
went  to  sea.  He's  ten  vears  older  than  I  am,  but  he 
gave  me  my  first  chance.  Yes;  that  kind  of  thing 
takes  the  heart  out  of  you,  and  they  were  both  in  it. 
Hadn't  been  for  the  dog  we  wouldn't  have  missed  her, 
maybe,  although  the  captain  was  keeping  tally  of  the 
passengers  and  crew» 

"  Three  minutes,  they  said  it  was — more  like  three 
hours  to  me — I  held  the  crowd  back,  wondering  how 
long  I  ought  to  wait  if  he  didn't  come  up,  knowing 
my  duty  was  to  stay  where  I  was,  when  the  dog 
sprang  out  of  the  door,  half  his  hair  singed  off  him, 
barkin'  and  jumpin'  as  if  he  had  been  let  out  for  a 
romp;  and  then  came  the  captain  staggerin'  along, 
his  face  scorched,  his  coat  half  burned  off  him,  the 
woman  in  his  arms  in  a  dead  faint  and  pretty  nigh 
smothered.  The  old  fool  had  locked  herself  in  her 
stateroom — he  had  to  break  down  the  door  to  get 
at  her — cryin'  she'd  rather  die  there  than  be  separated 
from  her  sister. 

"  We  made  room  for  the  two — the  half -crazy  man 
fallin'  back — and  the  captain  lowered  her  himself 
into  the  boat  alongside  her  sister,  and  then  he  sent 
me  down  the  ladder  behind  her  to  catch  the  others 
when  they  came  down  and  see  that  everything  was 
ready  to  cast  off. 

269 


"AGAINST    OKDEKS" 

"  I  could  see  the  captain  now  from  my  position  in 
the  boat,  np  against  the  sky — he  was  the  last  man  on 
the  ship — holding  the  dog  close  to  him.  Once  I 
thought  he  was  going  to  bring  him  down  in  his  arms, 
he  held  him  so  tight. 

"  Next  time  I  looked  he  was  coming  down  the 
ladder  slowly,  one  foot  at  a  time,  the  dog  looking 
down  at  him,  his  big,  human  eyes  peering  into  the 
captain's  face,  his  long,  pointed  nose  thrust  out,  his 
ears  bent  forward.  If  he  could  have  spoken — and  he 
looked  as  if  he  was  speaking — he  would  be  telling 
him  how  glad  he  felt  at  savin'  the  old  woman,  and 
how  happy  he  was  that  they'd  all  three  got  clear. 
"My  own  collie  used  to  talk  to  me  like  that — had 
a  kind  of  low  whine  when  he'd  get  that  way;  tell 
me  about  his  sheep  stuck  in  the  snow,  and  the  way 
the " 

The  first  officer  stopped,  cleared  his  throat,  shook 
the  ashes  from  his  pipe  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  After 
a  while  he  went  on.  His  words  came  slower  now,  as 
.f  they  hurt  him. 

"  When  the  captain  got  half-way  down  the  ladder 
I  saw  him  stand  still  for  a  moment  and  look  straight 
up  into  the  dog's  eyes.     Then  I  heard  him  say : 

"  e  Down,  Bayard !     Stay  where  you  are.' 

"  The  dog  crouched  and  lay  with  his  paws  on  the 
edge  of  the  rail.     That's  what  he'd  done  all  his  life — 

270 


He  was  coming  down  the  ladder  slowly." 


"AGAINST    ORDERS" 

just  obeyed  orders  without  question.  Again  I  saw 
the  captain  stop.  This  time  he  slipped  his  hand  into 
his  side-pocket,  half  drew  out  his  revolver,  put  it 
back  again,  and  kept  on  his  way  down  the  ladder  to 
the  boat. 

"  Then  the  captain's  order  rang  out : 

"  '  Get  ready  to  shove  off ! ' 

"  Hardly  had  the  words  left  his  lips  when  there 
came  another  dull,  muffled  roar,  and  a  sheet  of  flame 
licked  the  whole  length  of  the  deck.  Then  she  fell 
over  on  her  beam. 

"  '  My  God !  '  I  cried ;  '  left  that  dog  to  die ! ' 

For  a  moment  the  first  officer  did  not  answer.  Then 
he  raised  his  eyes  to  mine  and  said  in  a  voice  full  of 
emotion : 

"  Yes ;  there  was  nothin'  else  to  do.  It's  against 
orders  to  take  animals  into  life-boats.  They  take 
room  and  must  be  fed,  and  we  hadn't  a  foot  of  space 
or  an  ounce  of  grub  and  water  to  spare,  and  we  had 
two  hundred  miles  to  go.  I  begged  the  captain.  6  I'll 
give  Bayard  my  place,'  I  said.  I  knew  he  was  right ; 
but  I  couldn't  help  it.  '  Let  me  go  back  and  get 
him.'  I  know  now  it  would  have  been  foolish;  but 
I'd  have  done  it  all  the  same.  So  would  you,  maybe, 
if  you'd  known  that  dog  and  seen  his  trusting  eyes 
lookin'  out  of  his  scorched  face  and  remembered  what 
he'd  just  done. 

271 


"AGAINST    OKDEKS" 

"  The  captain  never  looked  at  me  when  he  an- 
swered.    He  couldn't;  his  eyes  were  too  full. 

"  '  Your  place  is  where  you  are,  sir/  he  said,  short 
and  crisp.     6  Shove  off,  men.' 

"  He  will  never  get  over  it.  That  dog  stood  for 
the  girl  he'd  lost,  somehow.  That's  the  captain's  bell. 
I'm  wanted  on  the  bridge.     Good-night." 

Again  the  cabin  door  swung  free,  letting  in  a  blast 
of  raw  ice-house  air,  the  kind  that  chills  you  to  the 
bone.  The  gale  had  increased.  Through  the  opening 
I  could  hear  the  combers  sweeping  the  bow  and  the 
down-swash  of  the  overflow  striking  the  deck  below. 

With  the  outside  roar  came  the  captain,  his  tar- 
paulins glistening  with  spray,  his  cap  pulled  tight 
down  to  his  ears,  his  storm-beaten  face  ruddy  with 
the  dash  and  cut  of  the  wind.  He  looked  like  a  sea 
Titan  that  had  stepped  aboard  from  the  crest  of 
a  wave. 

If  he  saw  me — I  was  stretched  out  on  the  sofa  by 
this  time — he  gave  no  sign.  Opening  his  tarpaulins 
and  thrashing  the  water  from  his  cap,  he  walked 
straight  to  the  cage,  peered  in,  and  said  softly: 

"Ah,  my  little  man!  Asleep,  are  you?  I  just 
came  down  to  take  a  look  at  the  chart  and  see  how  you 
were  getting  on.  We're  having  some  weather  on  the 
bridge." 


272 


MUGGLES'S  SUPREME  MOMENT 


MUGGLES'S  SUPREME   MOMENT 


A  most  estimable  young  man  was  Muggles :  a  clean- 
shaven, spick-andean,  well-mannered  young  man — 
particular  as  to  the  brushing  of  his  hat,  the  tying  of 
his  scarf  and  the  cut  of  his  clothes ;  more  than  particu- 
lar as  to  their  puttings-on  and  puttings-off — sack- 
coat  and  derby  for  mornings;  top  hat  and  frock  for 
afternoons;  bobtail  and  black  tie  for  stags,  and  full 
regalia  of  white  choker,  white  waistcoat  and  swallow 
tail  for  smart  dinners  and  the  opera. 

He  knew,  too,  all  the  little  niceties  of  social  life — ■ 
which  arm  to  give  to  his  hostess  in  escorting  her  out 
to  dinner ;  on  which  side  of  a  hansom  to  place  a  lady ; 
the  proper  hours  for  calling;  the  correct  thing  in 
canes,  umbrellas,  stick-pins  and  cigar-cases;  the  way 
to  balance  a  cup  of  afternoon  tea  on  one  knee  while 
he  toyed  with  a  lettuce  sandwich  teetering  on  the 
other — all  the  delicate  observances  so  vital  to  the 
initiated  and  so  unimportant  to  the  untutored  and 
ignorant.     Then  Muggles  was  a  kind  and  considerate 

275 


MUGGLES'S    SUPEEME    MOMENT 

young  man — extremely  kind  and  intrusively  consid- 
erate; always  interesting  himself  in  everybody's 
affairs  and  taking  no  end  of  trouble  to  straighten 
them  out  whether  importuned  or  not — and  he  seldom 

;  was. 

This  idiosyncrasy  had  gained  for  him  during  his 
college  days  the  title  of  "  Mixey."  This  in  succeed- 
ing years  had  been  merged  into  "  Muddles  "  and 
finally  to  "  Muggles,"  as  being  more  euphonious  and 
less  insulting.  Of  late  among  his  intimates  he  had 
been  known  as  "  The  Goat/'  due  to  his  constant  habit 
of  butting  in  at  any  and  all  times,  a  sobriquet  which 
clings  to  him  to  this  day. 

His  real  name — the  one  he  inherited  from  his 
progenitors  and  now  borne  by  his  family — was  one 
that  stood  high  in  the  fashionable  world:  a  family 
that  answered  to  the  more  dignified  and  aristocratic 
patronymic  of  Maxwell — a  name  dating  back  to  the 
time  of  Cromwell,  with  direct  lineage  from  the  Earl 
of  Clanworthy — John,  Duke  of  Essex,  Lord  Bever- 

,  ston — that  sort  of  lineage.  No  one  of  the  later  Max- 
wells, it  is  true,  had  ever  been  able  to  fill  the  gap  of  a 
hundred  years  or  more  between  the  Clanworthys  and 
the  Maxwells,  but  a  little  thing  like  that  never  made 
any  difference  to  Muggles  or  his  immediate  connec- 
tions. Was  not  the  family  note-paper  emblazoned 
with  the  counterfeit  presentment  of  a  Stork  Eampant 

276 


MUGGLES'S    SUPREME    MOMEXT 

caught  by  the  legs  and  flopping  its  wings  over  a 
flattened  fish-basket ;  and  did  not  Muggles's  cigarette- 
case,  cuff-buttons  and  seal  ring  bear  a  similar  design  ? 
And  the  wooden  mantel  in  the  great  locked  library, 
and  which  was  opened  and  dusted  twice  a  year — the 
books,  not  the  mantel — did  it  not  support  a  life-sized  m 
portrait  of  the  family  bird  done  in  wood,  with  three 
diminutive  storklets  clamoring  to  be  fed,  their  open 
mouths  out-thrust  between  their  mother's  breast  and 
the  top  edge  of  the  fish-basket,  enwreathed  by  a  more 
than  graceful  ribbon  bearing  the  inscription,  "  AVe 
feed  the  hungry  " — or  words  to  that  effect  I 

Xone  of  these  evidences  of  wealth  and  ancestry, 
it  must  be  said,  ever  impressed  the  group  of  scoffers 
gathered  about  the  wood  fire  of  the  "  Ivy  "  in  his 
college  days,  or  about  the  smart  tables  at  the  "  Mag- 
nolia Club  "  in  his  post-graduate  life.  To  them  he 
was  still  "  Mixey,"  or  "  Muddles,"  or  "  Muggles,"  or 
"  The  Goat,"  depending  entirely  upon  the  peculiar 
circumstances  connected  with  the  mixing  up  or  the 
butting  in. 

To  his  credit  be  it  said  the  descendant  of  earls  ami 
high-daddies  never  lost  his  temper  at  these  onslaughts. 
If  Bender,  or  Podvine,  or  little  Billy  Salters  pitched 
into  him  for  some  act  of  stupidity — due  entirely  to 
his  misguided  efforts  to  serve  some  mutual  friend — 
Muggles  would  argue,  defend  and  protest,  but  the 

277 


MUGGLES'S    SUPKEME    MOMENT 

discussion  would  always  end  with  a  laugh  and  his 
signing  the  waiter's  check  and  ordering  another  one 
for  everybody. 

"  Why  the  devil,  Muggles,  did  you  insist  last  night 
on  that  Boston  girl's  riding  home  from  the  theatre  in 
the  omnibus,  you  goat  \  "  thundered  Podvine  one 
morning  at  the  club,  "  instead  of  letting  her " 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  protested  Muggles,  "  it  was 
much  more  comfortable  in  the  omnibus,  and " 

" And  broke  up  her  walk  home  with  Bobby, 


you  idiot !  He  had  to  take  the  owl  train  home,  and 
she  won't  see  him  for  a  month.  Didn't  you  know  they 
were  engaged  ?  " 

"  No " 

"  Of  course  you  didn't,  Muggles,  but  you  could 
have  seen  it  in  her  face  if  you'd  looked.  You  always 
put  your  foot  in  it  clean  up  to  your  pants'  pocket !  ?: 

"  You've  been  at  it  again,  have  you,  Muggles  ? " 
burst  out  Bender  that  same  night.  "  Listen  to  the 
Goat's  last,  boys.  Jerry  wanted  to  buy  that  swamp 
meadow  next  his  place  on  Long  Island  and  had  been 
dickering  with  the  old  fellow  who  owns  it  all  winter, 
telling  him  it  would  be  a  good  place  to  raise  cran- 
berries if  it  was  dug  out  and  drained,  and  they  had 
almost  agreed  on  the  price — about  twice  what  it  was 
worth — when  down  goes  Muggles  to  spend  the  night 
and  Jerry  blabs  it  all  out,  and  just  why  he  wanted 

278 


MUGGLES'S    SUPKEME    MOMENT 

it,  and  the  next  morning  Muggles,  to  clinch  the  deal 
and  help  Jerry,  slips  over  to  the  hayseed  and  tells 
him  how  the  Sunnybrook  Club  are  going  to  buy 
Jerry's  place,  and  how  they  wanted  the  swamp  for 
a  hatchery— all  true — and  that  the  hayseed  oughtn't 
to  wait  a  moment,  but  send  word  by  him  that  the 
deal  was  closed,  because  the  club-house  being  near  by 
would  make  all  the  rest  of  his  land  twice  as  valuable ; 
and  the  old  Skeezicks  winked  his  eye  and  shifted 
his  tobacco  and  said  he'd  think  about  it,  and  now  you 
can't  buy  that  sink-hole  for  twenty  times  what  it's 
worth,  and  the  Sunnybrook  is  looking  for  another 
site  nearer  Woodvale.  Eegular  clown  you  are,  Mug- 
gles. Exactly  like  that  fellow  at  the  circus  who  holds 
up  one  end  of  the  tent  and  then,  before  the  supes  can 
reach  it,  drops  it  for  the  other  end." 

When  the  results  of  this  last  well-intentioned  effort 
with  its  disastrous  consequences  became  clear  to  the 
Goat,  that  spotless  gentleman  leaned  back  in  his- 
chair,  threw  back  his  shoulders,  shot  out  his  cuffs,  re- 
adjusted his  scarf  pin  and  replied  in  an  offended  tone : 
"  All  owing,  my  dear  fellow,  to  the  stupidity  of 
the  agricultural  class.  I  told  the  farmer  he  would 
regret  it,  and  he  will.  As  for  myself,  I  was  awfully 
disappointed.  I  had  planned  to  run  all  the  way  back 
to  Jerry's  and  tell  him  the  good  news  before  he  went 

to  sleep  that  night,  and " 

279 


MUGGLES'S    SUPKEME   MOMENT 

"  Disappointed,  were  you  ?  How  do  you  think 
Jerry  felt?  Made  a  lot  of  difference  to  him,  I  tell 
you,  not  selling  his  place  to  the  club.  Been  a  whole 
year  working  it  up.  It's  smothered  now  under  a 
blanket — about  ninety  per  cent,  of  its  value — and 
the  Sunnybrook  scheme  would  have  pulled  him  out 
with  a  margin!  Now  it's  deader  than  last  year's 
shad.  What  the  club  wanted  was  a  hatchery  built 
over  a  spring,  and  that's  why  that  swamp  was  neces- 
sary to  the  deal.    Oh,  you're  the  limit,  Muggles !  " 

It  was  while  smarting  under  these  criticisms  that 
the  steward  one  morning  in  June  brought  him  his 
letters.  One  was  from  Monteith — Class  of  '91 — a 
senior  when  Muggles  was  a  freshman — and  was 
postmarked  "  Wabacog,  Canada,"  where  Monteith 
owned  a  lumber  mill — and  where  he  ran  it  him- 
self and  everything  connected  with  it  from  stump- 
age  to  scantling.  "  There  is  a  broad  stream  that 
runs  into  the  lake,  .  .  .  and  above  the  mill 
there  are  bass  weighing  ten  pounds,  .  .  .  and 
back  in  the  primeval  forest  bears,  0  .  .  and 
now  and  then  a  moose "  So  ran  the  letter.  Mug- 
gles had  spread  it  wide  open  by  this  time  and  was 
reading  it  aloud — everybody  knowing  Monteith — and 
the  group  never  having  any  secrets  of  this  kind  from 
each  other. 

"  Come  up,  old  chap,"  the  letter  continued,  "  and 

280 


MUGGLES'S    SUPREME    MOMENT 

stay  a  week — two,  if  you  can  work  it — and  brirjg 
Bender,  and  little  Billy  and  Poddy,  and  three  or  four 
more.  The  bungalow  holds  ten.  Wire  when — I'm 
now  putting  things  on  ice." 

Muggles  looked  around  the  circle  and  sent  inter- 
rogatory Marconigrams  with  his  eyebrows.  In 
response  Podvine  said  he'd  go,  and  so  did  Billy 
S alters.  Bender  thought  he  could  come  a  day  or  two 
later — the  earning  of  their  daily  bread  was  not  an 
absorbing  task  with  these  young  gentlemen — their 
fathers  had  done  that  years  before. 

Muggles  ran  over  in  his  mind  the  list  of  his  engage  * 
ments:  he  was  due  at  Gravesend  on  the  tenth  for  a 
week,  to  play  golf;  at  his  aunt's  country-seat  in 
Westchester  on  the  eleventh  for  the  same  length  of 
time,  and  on  the  twelfth  he  was  expected  to  meet  a 
yacht  at  Cold  Spring  Harbor  for  a  cruise  up  the 
coast.  He  had  accepted  these  invitations  and  had 
fully  intended  to  keep  each  and  every  one.  Mon- 
teith's  letter,  however,  seemed  to  come  at  a  time  when 
he  really  needed  a  more  virile  and  bracing  life  than 
was  offered  by  the  others.  Here  was  a  chance  to 
redeem  his  reputation.  Lumber  camps  meant  big 
men  doing  big  things — things  reeking  with  danger, 
such  as  falling  trees,  forest  fires  and  log  jams. 
There  might  also  be  hair-breadth  escapes  in  the  hunt- 
ing of  big  game  and  the  tramping  of  the  vast  wilder- 

281 


MUGGLES'S    SUPREME    MOMENT 

ness.  This  dressing  three  times  a  day  and  spending 
the  intermediate  hours  hitting  wooden  balls,  or  loung- 
ing in  a  straw  chair  under  a  deck  awning,  had  become 
tiresome.  What  he  needed  was  to  get  down  to  Nature 
and  hug  the  sod,  and  if  there  wasn't  any  sod  then 
he  would  grapple  with  whatever  took  its  place. 

Muggles  dropped  his  legs  to  the  floor,  straightened 
his  back,  beckoned  to  a  servant,  motioned  for  a  tele- 
graph blank — exertion  is  tabooed  at  the  Magnolia-' - 
untelescoped  a  gold  pencil  hooked  to  his  watch-ckaui* 
and  wrote  as  follows : 

"  Thanks.     Coming  Tuesday." 


n 

Vrabacog  covers  a  shaved  place  in  a  primeval  forest 
which  slopes  to  a  lake  of  the  same  name.  Covering 
this  bare  spot  are  huge  piles  of  sawed  lumber — ■ 
Monteith's  axe-razors  did  the  shaving — surrounding 
an  enormous  mill  surmounted  by  a  smokestack  of 
wrought  iron  topped  with  a  bird-cage  spark  arrester, 
the  whole  flanked  by  a  runway  emerging  from  the 
lake,  up  which  climb  in  mournful  procession  the 
stately  bodies  of  fallen  monarchs  awaiting  the  cutting 
irony  of  the  saw.  Farther  along,  on  another  clearing, 
stands  a  square  building  labelled  "  Office,"  and  still 

282 


MUGGLES'S    SUPREME   MOMENT 

farther  on,  guarded  by  sentinel  trees  and  encircled 
by  wide  piazzas,  sprawls  a  low-roofed  bungalow,  its 
main  entrance  level  with  a  boardwalk  ending  in  the 
lake.  This  was  Monteith's  home.  Here  during  the 
winter's  logging  he  housed  himself  in  complete  seclu- 
sion, and  here  in  summer  he  kept  open  house  for 
whoever  would  answer  in  person  his  welcoming 
letters. 

Anything  so  rude  and  primeval,  or  so  comfort- 
ing and  inviting,  was  beyond  the  experience  of  Mug- 
gles  and  his  friends.     This  became  apparent  before 
they    had    shed    their    coats    and    unpacked    their 
bags.     There  was  a  darky  who  answered  to  the  name 
of  Jackson  who  could  not  only  crisp  trout  to  a  turn, 
but  who  could  compound  cocktails,  rub  down  mus- 
cular backs  shivering  from  morning  plunges  in  the 
lake,  make  beds,  clean  guns,  wait  on  the  table,  and  in 
an  emergency  row  a  canoe.     There  were  easy  chairs 
and  low-pitched  divans  overspread  with  Turkey  rugs 
and  heaped  with  piles  of  silk  cushions;  there  were 
wooden  lockers,   all  open,  and  each  one  filled  with 
drinkables    and    smokables — drinkables    with    white 
labels,  and  smokables  six  inches  long  with  cuffs  half- 
way down  their  lencrth ;  there  was  an  ice-chest  sam- 
pling  a  larger  house  in  the  rear ;  there  was  a  big,  wide, 
all-embracing  fireplace  that  burst  its  sides  laughing 
over  the  good  time  it  was  having  (the  air  was  cool  at 

283 


MUGGLES'S    SUPEEME   MOMENT 

night),  and  outside,  redolent  with  perfume  and  glis- 
tening in  the  sunshine,  there  was  a  bed  of  mint  pro- 
tected by  a  curbing  of  plank  which  rivalled  in  its 
sweet  freshness  those  covering  the  last  resting-places 
of  the  most  hospitable  of  Virginians. 

And  there  was  Monteith! 

Some  men  are  born  rich;  some  inherit  a  pair  of 
scissors  fitted  to  strong  thumbs  and  forefingers ;  some 
have  to  lie  awake  nights  wondering  what  they  will 
do  next  to  help  their  surplus  run  to  waste,  and  some 
pass  sleepless  hours  devising  plans  by  which  they  can 
catch  in  their  empty  pockets  the  clippings  and  drip- 
pings of  all  three.  Muggles's  host  was  none  of  these. 
What  he  possessed  he  had  worked  for — early,  late  and 
all  the  time.  His  father  had  stood  by  and  seen  the 
old  homestead  in  his  native  Southern  State  topple  into 
ashes,  only  the  gaunt  chimney  left;  the  son  had 
worked  his  way  through  college,  and  then  with 
diploma  in  one  hand  and  his  courage  in  the  other — 
all  he  owned — he  had  shaken  the  dust  of  civilization 
from  his  shoes  and  had  struck  out  for  the  Northern 
wilds:  Wabacog  was  the  result. 

All  these  years  he  had  kept  in  touch  with  his 
college  chums,  and  when  the  day  of  his  success 
arrived,  and  he  was  his  own  master,  with  the  inborn 
good-fellowship  that  marked  his  race,  he  had  unbut- 
toned his  pocket,  shaken  out  his  heart  and  let  loose 

284 


MUGGLES'S    SUPREME   MOMENT 

a  hospitality  that  not  only  revived  the  memories  of 
his  childhood,  but  created  a  new  kind  of  joy  in 
the  hearts  of  his  guests.  Hence  the  bungalow — hence 
Jackson — hence  the  lockers  and  the  ice-chest,  and 
hence  the  bed  quilt  of  mint. 

"  This  is  your  room,  Muggles — and,  Bender,  old 
man,  yours  is  next.  Podvine,  you  are  across  the 
hall/'  was  his  welcome.  "  Breakfast  is  any  time  you 
want  it ;  dinner  at  six.  iSTow  come  here !  See  that 
line  of  lockers  and  that  ice-chest  ?  Don't  forget  'em, 
please !  Step  up,  Jackson — take  a  look  at  him,  boys. 
That  darky  can  mix  anything  known  to  man.  He 
never  sleeps,  and  he's  never  tired.  If  you  don't  call 
on  him  for  every  blessed  thing  you  want  day  or  night, 
there'll  be  trouble." 

They  fished  and  canoed ;  they  hunted  bears — a  fact 
known  to  the  bear,  who  kept  out  of  their  way — never 
was  in  it,  Bender  insisted ;  they  went  overboard  every 
morning,  one  after  another,  in  the  almost  ice-cold 
water  of  the  lake,  out  again  red  as  lobsters,  back  on  a 
run,  whooping  with  the  cold  to  the  blazing  fire  of 
the  bungalow  which  Jackson  had  replenished  with 
bundles  of  dried  balsam  that  cracked  and  snapped 
with  a  roar  while  it  toasted  the  bare  backs  and 
scorched  the  bare  legs  of  each  one  in  turn  (the  balsam 
was  gathered  the  year  before  for  this  very  purpose) . 

285 


MUGGLES'S    SUPEEME   MOMENT 

They  roamed  the  woods,  getting  a  crack  once  in  a 
while  at  a  partridge  or  a  squirrel ;  they  strolled  about 
the  mill,  listening  to  the  whir  of  the  saws  and  watch- 
ing the  "  cut  "  as  it  was  rolled  away  and  was  made 
to  feed  the  hugo  piles  of  lumber  and  timber  flanking 
the  runway  and  far  enough  away  from  the  huge 
stack  to  be  out  of  the  way  of  treacherous  sparks ;  and 
at  night  they  sat  around  Jackson's  constantly  replen- 
ished fire  and  told  stories  of  their  college  days  or 
revived  the  current  gossip  of  the  club  and  the  Street. 

Muggles  ruminated  over  each  and  every  experience 
—all  new  to  him — and  kept  his  eyes  open  for  the 
psychological  moment  when  he  would  burst  asunder 
the  bonds  of  conventionality  and  rise  to  the  full 
measure  of  his  abilities.  The  Clanworthys  had  swung 
battle-axes  and  ridden  milk-white  chargers  into  the 
thickest  of  the  fray.  His  turn  would  come;  he  felt 
it  in  his  bones:  then  these  unbelievers  would  be 
silenced. 

His  host  interested  him  enormously,  especially  his 
masterful  way  of  handling  his  men.  He  himself  had 
been  elected  foreman  of  Hose  Carriage  !No.  1  in  the 
village  near  his  father's  country  seat,  and  still  held 
that  important  office.  His  cape  and  fire-boots  fitted 
him  to  a  nicety,  and  so  did  his  helmet.  ~No.  1  had 
been  called  out  but  once  in  its  history,  and  then  to 
the  relief  of  a  barn  which,  having  lost  heart  before  the 

286 


MUGGLES'S    SUPREME   1L01LEXT 

rescuers  reached  it,  had  sunk  to  the  ground  in  despair 
and  there  covered  itself  with  ashes.  He  had  been  crit- 
icised, he  remembered,  much  to  his  chagrin,  for  the 
way  he  had  conducted  the  rescue  party ;  but  it  would 
never  happen  again.  After  this  he  would  pattern  his 
conduct  after  Monteith,  who  seemed  to  accomplish 
by  a  nod  and  a  wave  of  the  hand  what  he  had  split 
his  throat  in  trying  to  enforce.  He  did  not  put  these 
thoughts  into  words;  neither  did  he  whisper  them 
even  in  the  ears  of  Podvine  or  Monteith — the  two 
men  who  understood  him  best  and  who  guyed  him  the 
least — especially  Monteith,  who  never  forgot  that  his 
college  chum  was  his  guest.  He  confided  them 
instead  to  Monteith's  big,  red-faced  foreman — half 
Canadian,  part  French,  and  the  rest  of  him  Irish — 
who  was  another  source  of  wonder.  Muggles's  inher- 
ent good  humor  and  willingness  to  oblige  had  made 
an  impression  on  the  lumber-boss  and  he  was  always 
willing  to  answer  any  fool  question  the  young  Xew 
Yorker  asked — a  privilege  which  he  never  extended 
to  his  comrades. 

"  What  do  I  do  when  somepin'  catches  fire  ?  "  the 
boss  replied  to  one  of  Muggles's  inquiries — they  were 
sitting  in  the  office  alone,  Bender  and  little  Billy 
having  gone  fishing  with  Jackson.  "I'd  blow  that 
big  whistle  ye  see  hooked  to  the  safety,  first.  Ye 
never  heard  it  ? — well,  don't !    It'll  scare  the  life  out 

287 


MUGGLES'S    SUPREME   MOMENT 

o'  ye.  If  the  mill  catches  before  we  can  get  the 
pumps  to  work  it's  all  up  with  us.  If  the  piles  of 
lumber  git  afire  we  kin  save  some  of  ?em  if  the  wind's 
right;  that's  why  we  stack  up  the  sawed  stuff  in 
separate  piles." 

"  What  do  you  do  first — squirt,  water  on  it  ?  " 

"  !N"o,  we  ain't  got  no  squirts  that'll  reach.  Best 
way  to  handle  the  piles  o'  lumber  is  to  start  a  line 
of  bucket-men  from  the  lake  and  cover  the  piles  with 
anything  you  can  catch  up — blankets,  old  carpets, 
quilts;  keep  'em  soaked  and  ye  kin  fight  it  for  a 
while;  that's  when  one  pile's  afire,  and  ye're  tryin' 
to  save  the  pile  next  t'it.  Light  stuff  is  all  over  in  half 
an  hour — no  matter  how  big  the  pile  is — keep  the 
rags  soaked — that's  my  way." 

That  night  before  the  blazing  coals  Muggles  broke 
out  on  some  theories  of  putting  out  a  conflagration 
that  made  Bender  sit  up  straight  and  little  Billy 
Salters  cup  his  ears  in  attention.  Monteith  also 
craned  his  neck  to  listen. 

"  Who  the  devil  taught  you  that,  Mixey  ?  "  asked 
Bender.  "  You  talk  as  if  you  were  Chief  of  the 
Big  Six." 

'  Why,  any  fireman  knows  that.  I've  been  run- 
ning with  a  machine  for  years."  The  calm  way  with 
which  Muggles  said  this,  shaking  the  ashes  from  his 
cigar  as  he   spoke,   showed   a  certain   self-reliance. 

288 


MUGGLES'S   SUPREME   MOMENT 

"  Out    in    our    village    I'm   foreman    of    the    Hose 

Company." 

The  sudden  roar  that  followed  this  announcement 
shook  the  big  glasses  and  bottles  on  the  low  table. 

"  So  you'd  keep  the  blankets  soaked,  would  you  ? 5: 
remarked  Billy,  winking  at  the  others. 

"  I  certainly  would."  This  came  with  a  certain 
triumphant  tone  in  his  voice. 

"  Learned  that  practising  on  his  head/'  whispered 
Podvine. 

"  Eight  you  are,  Poddy ;  but  Muggles,  suppose  the 
mill  caught  first,"  chipped  in  Monteith.  The  mill 
was  the  apple  of  his  eye.  Fire  was  what  he  dreaded 
— he  never  could  insure  the  mill  fully  against  fire. 
"  What  would  you  protect  first — the  mill  or  the  piles 
of  lumber  ?  " 

"  The  lumber,  of  course — the  mill  can  use  its 
pumps  if  the  engine-room  escapes." 

"  Better  save  the  mill,"  rejoined  Monteith  thought- 
fully. "  Trade  is  pretty  dull."  Then  he  rose  from 
his  seat,  reached  for  his  hat  and  strolled  out  on  the 
portico  to  take  a  look  around  before  he  turned  in. 

Muggles' s  masterful  grasp  of  a  science  of  which  his 
companions  knew  as  little  as  they  did  of  the  Pata- 
gonian  dialects  came  as  a  distinct  surprise.  What 
else  had  the  beggar  been  picking  up  in  the  way  of 
knowledge  ?    Maybe  Muggles  wasn't  such  a  goat,  after 

289 


MUGGLES'S    SUPKEME    MOMENT 

all.  That  Monteith  had  approved  of  his  tactics  only 
increased  their  respect  for  their  companion.  Mnggles 
caught  the  meaning  of  the  look  in  their  faces  and  his 
waistcoat  began  to  pinch  him  across  his  chest.  This 
life  was  what  he  needed,  he  said  to  himself.  Here 
were  big  men — the  lumber-boss  was  one — and  he  was 
another — doing  big  things.  Nothing  like  getting 
down  to  primeval  Nature  for  an  inspiration !  "  Hug- 
ging the  sod,"  as  he  named  it,  had  had  its  effect  not 
only  on  himself,  but  on  his  fellows.  They  would 
never  have  felt  that  way  toward  him  at  the  Magnolia. 
The  week  at  Wabacog  had  widened  their  horizon — 
widened  everybody's  horizon — as  for  himself  he  felt 
like  a  Western  prairie  with  limitless  possibilities  end- 
ing in  mountains  of  accomplishment. 

That  night,  an  hour  after  midnight,  Muggles  found 
himself  sitting  bolt  upright  in  bed.  Outside,  filling 
the  air  of  the  wilderness,  bellowed  and  roared  the 
deep  tones  of  the  steam  siren.  Then  came  a  babel  of 
voices  gaining  in  distinctness  and  volume : 

"  Fire,  fire,  FIKE  !  " 

Muggles  sprang  through  the  door  and  ran  full  tilt 
into  Jackson  and  Bender,  who  had  vaulted  from  their 
beds  but  a  second  before.  The  next  instant  every  maia 
in  the  bungalow,  Monteith  at  their  head,  came  turn* 
bling  out,  one  after  the  other. 

290 


MUGGLES'S    SUPEEME    ^lOMEXT 

"  Fire !  Eire !  Fire !  "  rang  the  cry,  repeated  by 
a  hundred  mill  hands  rushing  toward  the  mill.  A 
spark  [lad  worked  its  way  through  the  arrester,  some 
one  said,  had  fallen  into  the  sawed  stuff,  been  nursed 
into  a  blaze  by  the  night  wind,  and  a  roaring  flame 
was  in  full  charge  of  one  pile  of  lumber  and  likely 
to  take  possession  of  another. 

Muggles  looked  about  him. 

His  supreme  moment  had  come! 

The  blood  of  the  Clanworthys  rose  in  his  veins. 
The  Pass  lay  before  him — so  did  the  Bridge.  A  full 
suit  of  dove-colored  pajamas  and  a  pair  of  turned-up 
Turkish  slippers  was  not  exactly  the  kind  of  uniform 
that  either  Leonidas  or  Horatius  would  have  chosen 
to  fight  his  way  to  glory,  but  there  w7as  no  time  to 
change  them. 

With  a  whoop  to  Bender,  who  had  really  begun  tc 
believe  in  him,  and  a  commanding  order  to  Jackson, 
the  three  stripped  the  costly  Turkish  rugs  from  the 
lounges,  and  blankets  from  the  beds,  and,  following 
his  lead,  dashed  through  the  woods  to  the  relief  of  the 
endangered  pile  of  lumber.  On  the  way  they  passed 
a  gang  of  Canucks,  carrying  buckets.  It  was  but 
the  work  of  a  moment  to  arrange  these  into  a  posse 
of  relays  with  Bender  on  the  lake  end  of  the  line  and 
Jackson  next  the  pile,  the  gang  passing  the  buckets 
from  hand  to  hand. 

291 


MUGGLES'S    SITPKEME    MOMENT 

This  done  Muggles  snatched  a  ladder  from  an 
adjacent  building,  threw  it  against  the  threatened 
lumber,  skipped  up  its  rungs  like  a  squirrel  and 
stood  in  silhouette  against  the  flaring  blaze,  his 
dove-gray  flannels  flapping  about  his  thin  legs,  his 
attenuated  arms  gyrating  orders  to  the  relief  party, 
who  had  sj)read  the  rugs  and  blankets  on  the  fire- 
endangered  side  of  the  pile  of  lumber  and  who  were 
now  soaking  them  with  water  under  Muggles's  direc- 
tion. Now  and  then,  as  some  part  of  the  burning 
mass  would  collapse,  a  shower  of  sparks  and  smoke 
would  obscure  Muggles ;  then  he  could  be  seen  brush- 
ing the  live  coals  from  his  pajamas,  darting  here  and 
there,  shouting :  "  More  water !  More  water !  Here, 
on  this  end !  All  together  now !  "  fighting  his  way 
with  hand  raised  to  keep  the  heat  from  blistering  his 
face,  a  very  Casablanca  on  the  burning  deck. 

Soon  the  tongues  of  flame  mounting  skyward  grew 
less  in  number ;  columns  of  black  smoke  took  the  place 
of  the  shower  of  sparks;  the  light  flickering  on  the 
frightened  tree-trunks  began  to  pale;  from  the  rugs 
and  blankets  the  hot  steam  no  longer  rose  in  clouds. 
The  crisis  had  passed!  The  pile  was  saved!  Mug- 
gles had  won ! 

During  all  this  time  neither  Monteith  nor  the  big 
lumber-boss  had  put  in  an  appearance ;  nor  had  Pod- 
vine  nor  little  Billy  Salters  lent  a  hand.    Bender  had 

292 


MUGGLES'S    SUPREME    MOMENT 

stuck  to  his  post  and  so  had  Jackson,  oblivious  of  the 
whereabouts  of  any  other  member  of  the  coterie  ex- 
cept Muggles,  whose  clothespin  of  a  figure  came  into 
relief  now  and  then  against  the  flare  of  the  flames. 
Then  Bender  made  his  way  back  to  the  bungalow. 

The  last  man  to  leave  the  deck  was  Muggles. 

Backing  slowly  down  the  ladder  one  rung  at  a 
time,  his  face  blistered,  his  pajamas  burnt  into  holes, 
he  examined  the  surrounding  lumber;  saw  that  all 
his  orders  had  been  carried  out,  gave  some  parting 
instructions  to  the  men  to  watch  out  for  sparks, 
especially  those  around  the  edge  of  the  saved  pile, 
and  then  slowly,  and  with  great  dignity,  made  his 
way  to  the  bungalow — his  destiny  fulfilled,  his  honor 
maintained  and  his  position  assured  among  his  fel- 
lows. He  had  now  only  to  await  the  plaudits  of  his 
comrades ! 

As  he  pushed  open  the  door  and  looked  about  him 
the  color  rose  in  his  cheeks  and  a  kind  of  a  hotness 
came  from  inside  his  pajamas.  Grouped  about  the 
low  table,  heaped  with  specimens  of  cut  glass,  a 
squatty  bottle,  a  siphon  and  a  bowl  of  cracked  ice,  sat 
every  member  of  the  coterie — Bender  among  them — 
Monteith  in  the  easy  chair  at  their  head.  If  any 
other  occupation  had  engrossed  their  attention  since 
the  alarm  sounded  there  was  no  evidence  of  it  either 
in  their  appearance  or  in  the  tones  of  their  voices. 

293 


MUGGLES'S    SITPKEME    MOMENT 

"  Lo,  the  Conquering  Hero/'  broke  out  Podvine. 
4i  Get  up  Billy  and  put  a  wreath  of  laurel  over  his 
scorched  and  blistered  brow." 

Muggles,  for  a  moment,  did  not  reply.  The  shock 
had  taken  his  breath  away.  He  supposed  every  man 
had  worked  himself  into  exhaustion.  The  only  thing 
that  had  really  dimmed  his  own  triumph  was  the 
fear  that  on  reaching  the  bungalow  he  might  find 
the  blackened  remains  of  one  or  more  of  his  com- 
rades stretched  out  on  the  floor. 

"  Didn't  you  fellows  try  to  save  anything  ? "  he 
exploded. 

"  Wasn't  anything  to  save  —  mill  was  in  no 
danger." 

"  Why,  the  wThole  place  would  have  gone  if  I 
hadn't " 

"  You're  quite  right,  Muggles,"  said  Monteith. 
"  Let  up  on  him,  boys.  You  worked  like  a  beaver, 
old  man.  Sorry  about  the  rugs — one  was  an  old 
Bokhara — but  that's  all  right — of  course  you  didn't 
stop  to  think." 

"  Well,  but,  Monteith — what's  a  rug  or  two  when 
you  have  to  save  a  pile  of —  what's  the  lumber  worth, 
anyhow  ? " 

"  Oh,  well,  never  mind — let  it  go,  old  man." 

Bender,  who  was  still  soaking  wet  from  splash- 
ing  buckets,  and  since  his  return  to  the  bungalow 

294 


MUGOLES'S   SUPREME  moment 

had  been  boiling  mad  clear  through,  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

"  I'll  tell  you — I've  just  found  out.  As  the  pile 
now  stands  it's  worth  four  thousand  dollars.  If  it 
had  burned  up  it  would  have  been  worth  six.  It's 
msured,  you  goat !  " 


295 


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